


Amateur Cartography

by luninosity, MonstrousRegiment



Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Chocolate, Comfort, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fundraisers, Gentle Sex, Happy Ending, Hurt!Sebastian, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Making Out, Russian Mafia, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed, True Love, artist!Chris, because Sebastian needs to make his father's partners happy, escort!Sebastian, sort of, they volunteer to teach art and such
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-14 14:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 96,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2195877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonstrousRegiment/pseuds/MonstrousRegiment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian's his father's son, with every family tie and keeping-the-mafia-partners-happy duty that entails. He shouldn't be looking at Chris. He shouldn't want to let Chris sketch his hands. He shouldn't, above all, let himself fall in love with Chris.</p><p>He is looking, and he does want to, and he's falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Not Your Hero

**Author's Note:**

> We are vastly excited to be doing this! 
> 
> Updates...probably every 2-3 weeks. We have a lot written, but we also both have individual stories to work on. :-)
> 
> Overall title courtesy of The Weakerthans' "Aside," because it's exactly right.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First meetings on a late-night rooftop. Also, a bagel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title courtesy of the Tegan & Sara song of that name: _I'm not your hero/ but that doesn't mean we're not one and the same..._

There’s someone else on the roof.

There’s the usual old beat-up couch, corners fraying, fabric scuffed from where it’d survived the climb up the stairs; might’ve been patterned, once, but years of being sat on by bodies and time have faded the once-cheerful flowers and vines to a more muted hue. There are the stars, twinkling like frost in a black-satin New York City night; there’re the familiar shapes of rooftop obstacles, vents and loose bricks and everything else that lurks up here in the spaces without words.

Chris had wanted the spaces without words. Why he’s here. Why he’d hoped no one else would be.

Sometimes there’re too many words. Too many demands. He leaves his hand on the knob of the roof-access door, heart freezing just a fraction more inside his chest. The other person’s not noticed him yet. He can leave.

His rooftop-- _their_ rooftop, evidently--spreads out run-down and tranquil and battered around them, overlooking the city. The bruised walls of the once-grand Select School for the Fine and Performing Arts stay strong, though, holding them up. It’s not a new building, in fact the hundred-and-eighty degree opposite of new, and nowhere near as shiny as the gleaming uptown versions where polished towncars might stop. But it’s been here for decades. And Chris likes that idea. Roots that go deep down. Stories to tell.

Stories; and that reminds him all over again of why he's here, on the rooftop at two in the morning, wanting to feel the cold. And he can’t help being annoyed, irrationally and unavoidably, that someone else’s in his sanctuary.

Intellectually he knows that other people come up here too. Hell, that couch has likely seen more make-out sessions than Chris has in his whole vast twenty-one years of life. But right now he wants to be alone. Because if he’s going to fall apart no one else is going to see it. They’d only worry. And he’s good at not needing worry. Good at carrying the world.

He _likes_ carrying the world. He’s got strong shoulders. Big hands. He likes being here and volunteering and praising the watercolors and sketches of shyly talented street kids who come in with pages torn from a notebook and kept secret at home. He loves watching their eyes light up when he compliments a pencil-line, an emotion; when he makes a suggestion and sees them get it and go on to create something brand-new.

This is, of course, why he’s on the roof.

Because he’s got an interview to do in eight hours. Because he’s apparently the most camera-friendly face of the volunteer staff, and he can talk with some authority about kids who need a place to go and the importance of open doors, the way his mom had always opened their doors to any friend or acquaintance in need, no questions asked.

And he wants to do the interview, because attention needs to be paid here, because funding is important, because saving the building is important. It matters, having somewhere to go.

None of this stops the inevitable creeping claws of the panic from sinking into his gut. This does matter. It matters so much, to everyone; and it’s resting on the shoulders of a kid with a Boston accent and ink-splattered hands and social anxiety so bad he once had to run out of a high-school auditorium even though he desperately wanted to audition for the school play, and--

The person on his sofa sighs, stretches, sits up enough to stare at the stars, and then collapses back down as if the gaze of those stars is just too heavy right now.

Chris blinks. He knows the sofa-person. Well. _Knows_ is a strong term. He’s not sure anyone really knows Sebastian. But they’ve met. Sebastian volunteers here too, far more quietly and unobtrusively than just about everyone else. Thursday afternoons, which means he gets here just as Chris is finishing up, and Chris has lingered for moments around the door to listen as elegant fingers shed gloves and flex in and out and proceed to coax delicate wild melodies out of ancient ivory piano keys, warming up and getting lost, not the simple pieces the kids’ll try but more complicated and darker and fantastical.

He’s wanted to say hello. He’s wanted to ask about the glittering fantasias of notes conjured into the air. He’s wanted to see whether he could get Sebastian to smile, because he has the impression Sebastian doesn’t smile much and that’s not right because someone so beautiful shouldn’t be that sad.

Surprised, he realizes the claws of panic have receded, and his heart’s more curious than anything else. Distracted by the mystery that’s his fellow volunteer.

Well, they’re both here. He might as well try that hello now. Maybe even a smile.

He picks his way across the rooftop, under the stars, testing out opening phrases in his head to find the right casual note. Fancy meeting you here, on a roof. No. What’s someone as gorgeous as you doing up here alone? Also no. Can I share the couch? Maybe. Can I put an arm around you, because you look exhausted and that coat’s too big and even from here I can tell that your wrist is sore, the way you’re holding it, so can I possibly hold you too?

He probably shouldn’t open with that. Though he wants to. With inexplicable urgency, like his heart’s shouting at him to be Sebastian’s hero, fairy-tale on a battered rooftop above grungy New York streets.

Instead he just says, “I used to like star-gazing, when I was a kid,” from about a foot away, trying not to startle the long-legged worn-out panther-kitten on the sofa. This only half works; Sebastian sits up, accidentally puts weight on the wrong wrist and winces, and stares at him in shock, but doesn’t immediately run away. Chris takes this as a promising sign.

 

He does this when he’s tired and lost: he looks at the sky and draws lines across. Five, parallel, long and perfectly straight, steady like his mother’s hand across a sheet of paper. The stars that are there are the notes. The big ones last long, the bright ones. He thinks of the tune absently, mouthing at the melody without making any real sound.

It takes his mind off things, if the things aren’t too big.

His wrist aches. If he moves his hand, spears of pain drill through his elbow and fingers. It’s not broken, just sprained. Sebastian’s had broken bones before, so he knows. He also knows he should go to the doctor, but, ha--no way he can go to any doctor, not right now. Not until a few days have passed, enough for his blood to look right. He’s yet to meet a doctor who didn’t want to take a blood sample for the stupidest thing. He’s pretty sure his father’s to be thanked for that, if all the disapproving glances across the breakfast table are to be explained.

Not that they always do need to be explained. Sometimes his father just… disapproves. In general. Of Sebastian.

He shifts in the old couch, sprawling across the cushions and pulling up a leg. It’s a comfortable old thing. It smells musty, like it’s met one too many rains, up here on the roof. He lets his head fall back, arching his aching neck. Squints at the sky. If only the second star from the right would be one line down, it would look a lot like the start of Ode to Joy.

The voice startles him badly. He hadn’t heard anyone come out onto the roof, he was so distracted with the music in the stars. A not insignificant part of his mind vaults immediately to alarm, and he sits up. Weight lands on his sore wrist. He bites down on the groan, but something must show on his face, because the company moves closer, making a sound of startled concern.

Oh. Chris. Damn, Sebastian can’t deal with this right now, not with a hangover that’s about two days old and several more in the making, with a wrist sore from being held down too tight, wrapped in a coat that wasn’t his until about two hours earlier when he snuck out of an apartment that belongs to someone whose name he can’t be bothered to remember.

“Are you hurt?” Chris asks, coming closer.

Sebastian straightens up from his sprawl, eyes glancing quickly across the rooftop. They’re alone. He knows Chris, in a manner of speech--he’s a volunteer here at the school, he’s a good guy, nothing shady. It’s unlikely he has any reason to hurt Sebastian, to seek him out expressly for the purpose. If he did have a reason it’s likely he wouldn’t take the chance. He’s an over-polite artist; not an enemy in disguise.

“Fine,” he manages eventually, nonchalantly cradling the wrist in his lap as he sits, feet well planted on the floor, knees spread, ready for anything.

Moonlight slants across Chris’ face, painting his blue eyes bone-white, paling his generous lips a dull pink. His beard’s grown, dark against his moonlight-bleached face. He’s uncomfortably beautiful, Chris. Sebastian fumbles for something to say into the tightening silence, and finally remembers what Chris said.

“Star-gazing, huh,” he says, clearing his throat from the rust of disuse. “I had a small telescope. Used to like looking at Mars.”

Chris crosses his arms, shoulders flexing up oddly. Sebastian sees the moment he forces himself to slump them, to relax. He’s seen Chris do that before, many times. The automatic defensiveness, followed by the conscious willing calm. Well, he’s seen it from a distance. Where it’s safe.

“Bit of an odd hour to be star-gazing on this roof, though,” Chris says, companionably.

Sebastian arches his brows pointedly. Chris laughs, short and sweet, sheepish. “I don’t think we’ve actually met. I’m Chris.”

He comes closer and offers a hand. Sebastian looks at it and makes an awkward gesture with his shoulder. His right wrist aches. He wants to shake Chris’ hand--the idea of touching Chris is beyond enjoyable, it actually pains him to have to miss it--but he’s wary of messing it up any further by moving it.

“Oh yeah, I thought, that looks kinda painful. There’s a medical kit in the bathroom, if you want me to look at it.”

He gestures with his hand to the half-open door, face open and guileless, genuine concern shining soft like velvet in his eyes. Sebastian looks at him for a long moment, torn. His wrist does need to be looked at, preferably by someone who won’t ask about the traces of chemicals in his veins. They’re all alone; the school is empty at this hour.

And… he wants Chris to help him. He wants to let him. Chris is the whole reason he arrives early in the school, when he dares, and lingers unobtrusively on corners as Chris finishes up with his kids, regaling smiles and warmth like he has it to spare, like he’s bright enough to share. Chris has big hands, long fingers with square nails well trimmed and often stained with ink or smudged with pencil streaks. Sebastian wants those hands on him, those gentle hands who’ve never hurt anyone.

That’s the whole reason he hangs back and never joins him. Those big, gentle hands.

“It’s… fine,” he manages, shifting in the couch. He realizes suddenly he didn’t take Chris’ hand or return the greeting. His mind is still slow with fatigue and countless things, head throbbing and thoughts lethargic and lazy. “Sebastian.”

Chris’ expression is difficult to read for a moment, like he’s concerned for the wrist but also concerned by Sebastian’s unwillingness to fold to first aid. Chris hangs around street kids all the time, so it’s hard to imagine he hasn’t picked up the ability to read tells on people. Sebastian wonders what he thinks of someone hungover on a roof couch in the middle of the night, who’s reluctant to allow someone to help him. He makes a face at what Chris is probably thinking.

“Maybe some ice, then,” Chris suggests. “I don’t want to seem pushy, but it doesn’t look good.”

“Is that how you pick up girls?” Sebastian asks, grinning. Deflect, deflect, deflect. Maybe if he’s enough of a dick, Chris will go away. His stomach turns at the thought, but he can’t argue it’s the desirable outcome.

The funny thing is Chris sees right through it. He grins along, maybe unwilling to be confrontational, but he shakes his head and refuses to rise to the bait.

“I know the one thing you won’t turn down, though,” he says, arching his brows. “Coffee.”

Oh. Coffee does sound like an amazing idea. Sebastian can’t accurately remember the last time he ate or drank anything that wasn’t alcohol, but considering the queasiness of his stomach, it must have been a fair amount of hours.

Chris. And coffee. And it’s not like Sebastian can’t tell Chris is trying to get him inside, out of the cold, like he’s already decided Sebastian is someone he can help, like Sebastian could ever deserve that. Chris isn’t trying to play him, though, Sebastian’s pretty sure of that. He’s so tired, too, and the coffee would be warm.

“I’ll even throw in a bagel,” Chris offers persuasively.

Sebastian snorts indelicately. “Well, if a _bagel_ is on the deal.”

He gets his feet under himself and heaves his weary body out of the comfortable couch with one elegant motion--or it would be elegant, he assumes, if his vision didn’t waver and the floor tilt unsteadily beneath his feet, once he’s standing straight. It rushes up to meet him.

 

Sebastian falls over so abruptly that Chris barely has time to catch him, even from a handshake’s distance away. It’s graceful, because Sebastian’s always graceful, but even more terrifying for that, like dying rainbows. Chris gets arms around him, and swears out loud in part because he’s pretty sure he just collided with that injured wrist and hadn’t even seen a flinch but in part because Sebastian feels shockingly light against him, no weight at all.

Sebastian’s not unconscious, not quite, but those pale eyes aren’t exactly focused, clouds over turquoise seas. He doesn’t answer the first time Chris says his name.

Chris says it again. His voice doesn’t shake, because he’s good at handling trauma, years of work with the school’s kids and years of watching his mother offer a shoulder for every wayward soul in Boston has given him that. But it wants to shake. Because this is different somehow. With Sebastian.

Who finally--thank God, or the overhead stars, or someone kind--looks back with a bit more coherence. Chris gets them both onto the stalwart sofa, puts a hand on Sebastian’s face, checks his eyes. Drugs? Alcohol? Something else? He’s seen enough substance abuse to know what that looks like; he’d’ve been willing to bet money on it being the world’s worst hangover, earlier, but now he’s not so sure.

“Sebastian,” he says. “Look at me, okay? You can see me, right? How many fingers am I holding up?” He’s also checking that pulse, surreptitiously. It flutters like hummingbird wings under his touch. “You know where you are? Your name?”

Sebastian looks at him with a certain amount of affronted dignity, but also a kind of startled wry acceptance, not pulling away. Chris thinks of the feral kittens of the city streets, the ones that come over to be fed but growl while he pets them. Maybe Sebastian’s tired enough, hungry enough in at least two ways, to give in to the care after all.

“I’m all right,” Sebastian says, which is patently untrue. Chris raises an eyebrow at him; gets a sigh. “Well. No. I’m not. I’m-- _nu prea bine._ But yes, I know my name. And, technically, you are holding up all ten fingers. But the answer you want is _trei_ \--three. Sorry.”

“For what? How many languages do you speak, anyway? And stay put for a minute. Breathe.” And keep talking. Stay awake. Please.

He’s pretty sure he’s heard Sebastian speaking German, talking to one of the smallest girls in a surprisingly kind voice, answering her bashful sentences. This doesn’t quite sound like that. And he is curious, though that’s overshadowed at the moment by the concern.

“Only five...I don’t think this roof is meant to be spinning...no, I’m okay.” Self-reliance gathered in like a shield, protective walls back in place. “It’s just not having eaten in--a while. Coffee?”

“Oh, sure, once you can stand up without passing out. Can I see your arm now?”

“So persistent.” Sebastian tips his head back against the sofa-cushions. “Fine. Do whatever you want.”

There are layers and layers to that sentence. Flat careless apathy of the damned, that’s one, Dantesque and brutal. Another layer’s world-worn resignation, the motions of the double entendre--do whatever you want, with me--as if it’s expected and no one including Sebastian will care if the offer’s accepted. But under that there’s more. A hint of intrigued gratitude, glinting like the inside of a barely-cracked geode, brilliance only suggested beneath shrouds of stone. Sebastian’s tried, is trying, to push him away, and Chris won’t go, and they both kind of want to find out what’s going to happen next.

“Tell me,” he says, perching on the edge of a cushion, fingers easing back the too-large sleeve of an obviously borrowed coat. Sebastian’s shirt and jeans look expensively distressed in the way that only the most high-end brands can, but they look genuinely distressed as well, like they’ve been present for some frightening scenes. Sebastian gives him a narrow-eyed glance.

“Tell you what? Which languages? English, sometimes badly. Romanian. German. French. Some Russian. Would you also like to know where I went to school, or what place I took in the eighth-grade talent show?”

“Sure, if you want. I meant what happened. This is pretty ugly, you know.”

“I know.” Nothing else volunteered there; Chris breathes out, counts to ten, decides all over again not to push. Sebastian’s skin is cold and bruised, and they need to get inside--they need, really, to find a hospital and if possible some sort of magical instant nourishment, but he knows how well that suggestion’ll go over and lead balloons don’t even compare--and so he opens his mouth to ask whether Sebastian’s feeling up to the stairs, and it’s at this point that Sebastian says musingly, “...second.”

“...what?”

“The talent show. I didn’t want to be first.”

Chris looks at him under the moonlight, surrounded by stars and city glitter and shadow. “Yeah, okay. You wanted someone else to get to win for once, very altruistic, next you’re gonna tell me you sprained your wrist saving small children from a speeding locomotive, and it’s probably all even true.”

And Sebastian blinks, blinks again, and laughs, the sound astonished and rusty, gate-hinges hinting at freedom in the night. “You-- _esti incredibil._ You know that’s not why. And you don’t even know me.”

“You speak very many languages and you once played the Winnie-the-Pooh song, like, ten times in a row because the cute little blond twins kept asking you for it. I mean, that’s the important one. Winnie-the-Pooh. Can you stand up?”

“You remember that? You weren’t even there. I think so, yes…”

Between the two of them, they navigate the stairs. Sebastian stays quiet, possibly from pain or trying not to pass out or just processing the admissions of the evening. Chris stays quiet too, for reasons similar to the last one. Sebastian. On his safe-haven sofa. Injured visibly and not, bruises he can’t see lying behind the defensive armor. Beautiful as ever, even thin and hungover and plainly uninterested in any kind of rescue. And leaning into his offered support, as they navigate the epic quest for the far-off ground floor.

Sebastian told him _something_. One tiny speck of gold held out from the treasure-box, before the lid slammed shut.

Chris wonders, keeping the arm firmly around him, whether he ought to admit in turn that he tends to lurk in the volunteer staff room and listen to Sebastian play. He’d had a hard time not wandering out to join in on the Winnie-the-Pooh day. His mom’d sung that one to him, years ago.

Might be a bit too stalker-in-training, though. He’d also not missed the glimpse of alarm in Sebastian’s eyes when he’d first appeared. Those eyes, that expression, had expected violence. An attack. They’d been prepared.

He doesn’t speak up.

They maneuver themselves into the staff break room because it’s next to the stairs and they both kind of need to sit down. Sebastian studies the scuffed wooden table like it might contain the secrets of the universe, picking idly at a splinter with his good hand. Chris contemplates options for a second, and then waves the empty instant coffee pot at him. “It won’t be exactly gourmet, but I did offer. And you could use it. So could I.”

“Well. If it’s for you.” Sebastian looks up from the splinter. “Would you like...help?”

“Because coffee’s a two-person job? No. Stay there. Also here.” Ice, wrapped in a dishtowel; Sebastian looks from the chilly lump to Chris’s face, sighs, and accepts the makeshift cold-pack, muttering what sounds like several profanities in at least two languages under his breath.

“You realize I’m going to go find the first-aid kit after this,” Chris says conversationally, hands busy.

Sebastian retorts promptly, “Seriously, _futu-ti ceapa ma-tii,_ ”  to which Chris says, “If you’re going to be a dick, at least do it in a language I know, otherwise it kinda loses the effect.” Aquamarine eyes look nonplussed at this response.

“You’re not actually good at that,” Chris tells him as a follow-up, handing over too-hot terrible coffee. It’s cheap and strong, exactly what they need to get through afternoons at the school, and it won’t properly sober Sebastian up but it’ll be something else in his body besides alcohol and other intoxicating substances. Sebastian takes a sip. Remembers to glare at him. Alley-kitten claws belatedly extended. “I’m not good at what, precisely?”

“Being a dick. You’re too nice for that.”

“I am _not_.”

“Yeah, you are. I was there, House on Pooh Corner.” He’s also found the last bagel in the cupboard, and he feels a tiny bit guilty for taking it without restocking the supply, but the food’s there for kids who need it, and frankly right now Sebastian’s a kid who needs it.

It crosses his mind to wonder how much younger Sebastian is than Chris himself. He doesn’t actually know; Sebastian’s never said, and though he’s obviously not a kid, he seems small right now, swathed in oversized fabric, white-faced and tough and vulnerable. Could be anywhere from fifteen to Chris’s own twenty-one; and something in Chris’s gut curls uncomfortably at the thought of an underage Sebastian at the mercy of whoever’d given him that sprain.

He brings over miraculously unexpired cream cheese, too. Sebastian regards this bounty with judicious skepticism. “That’s for the children.”

“Yep.”

“And yet you’re leaving it in front of me.”

“Yep.”

“You are aware that Anthony buys the food out of his own income.”

“And he’d tell you to eat it.” Anthony’s essentially a superhero. Keeping the school going, making them all laugh, throwing arms wide to everyone regardless of where they’ve been, what they’ve done. And he would in fact be standing over Sebastian, prepared to hand-feed him if necessary. They both know that’s true.

“I’ll...see what I can do about replacing it tomorrow,” Sebastian concedes, and puts an impressive amount of cream cheese on the first bagel-half. Chris grins. Sebastian doesn’t blush--Chris has a feeling there’s not much that can make Sebastian blush--but it’s audible in the accent. “You did leave it in front of me.”

“Huh. Okay, I know what you’re getting for your birthday, then. When is your birthday, anyway?”

“Nice try.” But the reply’s tinted with amusement. “Buy the chocolate-infused kind, and I might even tell you.”

“There’s chocolate cream cheese?”

Sebastian gives him a wide-eyed well-practiced devastatingly seductive look. Chris, caught off guard and suddenly extremely aware of all the reasons why Sebastian might be wearing a larger man’s coat, can’t even speak. “There’s chocolate _everything,_ Chris.”

“...right,” Chris gets out, trapped in the deliberately languid blue of those eyes, and flees before he can embarrass himself. More.

When he comes back with the first-aid kit, he’s half-expecting Sebastian to be gone, another hopeless phantom in the city night. He’s seen the walls behind those eyes.

Which is why his foot stops halfway to the ground, in the doorway, at the sight. Sebastian. Alone with bagel-crumbs at the lopsided table. Licking cream cheese casually from his index finger.

Chris is mesmerized. Can’t look away. It’s worse than Sebastian turning the too-rehearsed bedroom eyes on him two minutes before, so much worse, because it’s utterly innocent, no awareness of audience at all, just that pink tongue and elegant fingers and whiteness being licked from bare skin--

He must’ve made a sound, because Sebastian whips around to face him, eyes poised for fight or flight; and then relaxes. “Ah. Persistent. Again.”

“That is more or less the definition.” He plops the first-aid kit on the table. Waits. Sebastian, after what appears to be a fierce internal debate, gives in, most likely because he’s wincing every time he moves the arm and is willing to put up with Chris in order to get to the ibuprofen packet.

In the break room, under the softly spilling golden overhead light, they put Sebastian back together, more or less. Coffee and food and bandages tightly wrapped around that wrist. Painkillers and hushed fingers over wounded skin. They don’t talk much. No need.

Sebastian tests moving his arm, after. The lines of bandage show up brightly over his skin, white and clean. Like someone cares. Chris’s heart does a strange little somersault behind his breastbone.

“Not bad,” Sebastian decides. “Or that’s the painkillers.”

“Thanks.”

“No...sorry, I’m not good at…” A shrug, one-handed, truthful, broken. “I was attempting to thank you.”

Chris pauses, gathering medical supplies away. Meets his eyes. “No problem.” He means: not a problem, helping you, when you’ll let me help. Not ever. Never will be. Please ask.

“Chris…” A pause on that side, too, cautious as steps across an unfamiliar minefield. “You were here for...you’re doing the interview. Local news. Tomorrow. Today. You were here...what, getting ready?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Ah.” One more step. Finding secure ground. “You’ll be good at it. Talking to people. On camera.”

“I don’t know,” Chris says, honesty for honesty in the oasis of the overhead light. “That’s kind of the part that makes me nervous. Talking to people, on camera.”

“But you’ll be fine,” Sebastian says, very softly, words polished by that faint lilting accent into a magic spell. “I mean...you’re good at caring. About people. You make people...want to care. You’ll be fine.”

“Oh,” Chris says, foolish and inarticulate in the face of that unexpected gift, “oh, um--thanks.” And then they end up just looking at each other for a while, as the light of the single bulb tumbles lazily down.

Someone has to do something, the moment too drawn-out and soap-bubble breakable. Chris’s heart twists at the idea that Sebastian might flinch first, might let that gaze drop, defeated. So he gets up, instead. And then, having gotten up, he goes to put the first-aid kit away. He knows Sebastian will be gone when he returns.

He’s not wrong. Even the crumbs’ve been cleaned neatly from the table.

He stands in the doorway for five long minutes, thinking about pale blue eyes and bruises and those parting-gift words, before he turns out the light and locks up and goes home.

 

Sebastian’s too tired to get himself across the city to his apartment, so he goes to his closest base instead. His dad’s brownstone house about a dozen blocks away from the school, the whole reason he started volunteering; an excuse to leave, a cracked open door through which he could escape whenever things got tight and he felt like he was going to snap beneath the pressure.

It’s not yet four am, and the house is completely dark but for the entry hall lamp, golden and dim and welcoming. He drops his keys noisily on the key platter on the small table by the lamp. His father’s keys are also there, and his father’s lover’s--what’s her name? Oh. Christine.

A shadow moves by the stair and Sebastian whirls around, gritting his teeth.

“Easy there,” Radu arches his brows, unimpressed. “You know it’s safe in here. Where’ve you been, _alteţă?_ Your father’s been looking for you. Not picking up your phone?”

“I lost it.”

“Again?”

Sebastian shrugs, brushing by his father’s night bodyguard on his way to the kitchen. He obnoxiously turns on lights along the way, even the ones he knows he won’t need. Radu follows him, turning them off. He leans against the open doorway, crossing his arms, taking a good long look at Sebastian, who’s wearing the same clothes he was last seen in, but for the coat, which is a new acquisition.

“You look like roadkill,” he comments eventually, when Sebastian pulls open the fridge and snags a bottle of water.

“Thanks, man.”

“Is that Grenier’s raincoat?”

Sebastian looks at him absently. “Was that his name?”

Radu shakes his head slowly, but the good thing about Radu is he’s done so much questionable shit in his life that his facial muscles have forgotten the ability to pull up a disappointed expression. Something about glass houses and rocks, Sebastian privately thinks.

Abruptly, Radu straightens form his lazy lean, face darkening. “You’re hurt?”

Shit. “Just a sprain. And I got it looked at, _ma._ ”

Radu’s brows shoot up into a mocking arch. His eyes are a very dark blue, glacial, and his thin lips form a straight, hard line. He’s not handsome, Radu; he might have been, when he was younger, before the jagged scar across his cheekbone, before his nose was broken one too many times.

“Speaking of your mother.”

“No, no one’s speaking of my mother, I didn’t bring her up _at all_ \--”

Radu makes a sharp, hostile gesture with his hand. A lifetime of exposure to Radu’s moods snaps Sebastian’s mouth shut.

“It’s been three days. Call her.”

Then he turns around and stalks away without another word. Sebastian allows himself to fall into one of the island chairs, dropping his forehead into his good left hand. Three days. That hasn’t happened in a while. He’d been keeping it together, or at least as together as he was able to keep it, for a while. Maybe four months? Just about, since his last real bender. He’d been doing _fine._

And then his father came up with that stupid fucking concert, and he’d had to-- _ah, but there’s always something, isn’t there,_ he thinks bitterly. He’s never short on excuses, any more than he’s short on opportunities.

He’s alone in the dim kitchen and the only sound he hears is the small automatic bread oven, turning and kneading the dough in its insides, a steady laborious mechanical grinding sound, rhythmic and constant. His father likes freshly made bread.

In the soft golden light on his father’s kitchen, he turns his right wrist and looks at the bandages Chris put on him, neatly and carefully tied at the base of his wrist. All the way from his palm to the middle of his forearm, offering enough support to brace his wrist and keep it steady, preventing pain. He remembers, like a ghost, the sensation of Chris’ warm fingers along his skin, mapping the bruises already darkening around his wrist joint, finger-shaped. Chris hadn’t said anything, but Sebastian had seen it in his softly downcast eyes, his full lips pinched with compassion. He hasn’t said anything, but he’s left so many open spaces, invited so many times in hopes Sebastian would tell him, would share, would maybe ask for help.

All he’d have had to do would have been to ask, and he knows, he _knows,_ Chris would have done anything he could.

Sebastian laughs, quietly, under his breath, a sound like gravel on his throat, bitter and harsh on the ears. He fingers the edges of the bandages, finds where the fabric ends at his palm, remembers the calm and competent way in which Chris had snuck his fingers in just so, tugging at the bandage to make sure it didn’t bite into Sebastian’s hand and hurt him. Sebastian closes his eyes, swallows.

Tonight was--was bad. He shouldn’t have let Chris close, shouldn’t have let him in. He could have taken care of his own wrist. He shouldn’t have let Chris see how bad it was--the fatigue, the fear, the wrist. Chris didn’t miss one detail, and there was a bright and gleaming sort of intelligence in his eyes, an ability to put together clues and see the bigger picture that unsettled Sebastian.

Only he had been so _tired,_ and so--so _sick_ of himself. In the aftermath, in the inevitable crash of the high, it was always worse. The noise inside his head, deafening and steady like a roar, like the ocean. And the school, the one place in his life untouched by, well, _his life,_ was like a lifeboat in the heaving ocean. There was quiet in the school, and he’d desperately needed the quiet.

And then, when Chris had helped him, had cradled his wrist gently in his hands and touched here and there with stunning delicacy, handling Sebastian like he was made of glass, like he was a hollow-boned bird, fragile and easily startled, Sebastian hadn’t been able to turn him away as harshly as he ought to have done. He should have, because the safest Chris and his warmth were was as away from Sebastian as could be managed unless drastic action was taken.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t possibly stop going to the school. He isn’t the best pianist--that is undeniably his mother--but he is good, good enough, at least, to entertain the kids. They like his music, maybe even like him a bit, might even notice his absence, if he stops going, and… if it makes them happy for a little while, if it makes it okay for a couple of hours, then that is good. That, that feels good. Doing something good for someone, for those kids, who need it and deserve it. He doesn’t want to take that away from them. Doesn’t want to leave Anthony with one less staff member to help shoulder the burden.

Or, to be honest… he doesn’t want to take it away from himself. That it would be the right thing to do, there can be no doubt, but Sebastian isn’t good at being selfless, at being self-sacrificing. He has no discipline.

He doesn’t want to stop going to the school. Most importantly, he can’t stomach the idea of not seeing Chris again. Chris with his sunshine smile and his rich exuberant laugh, his big gentle hands and the jutting bone of his wrists, like a puppy grown too big too quick. Chris is too soft and kind and good for Sebastian, but that doesn’t mean… that doesn’t mean Sebastian can’t continue as he was, lingering quiet in the dark, wordless, stealing sunlight surreptitious and cheating.

He’ll just… he’ll go back to that. He can do that. He can keep Chris safe by never touching him again.

He nods, alone and silent in the kitchen, rubbing his fingertips idly along the soft fabric of the bandages. Goddamn, but it hurts to make that decision, never to speak to Chris again, to leave him be, safe and good and untarnished.

Shaking his head, he gets up and tugs open the narrow door in the pantry by the window, dives in and fishes out the bottle of expensive scotch he knows his father keeps there.


	2. Let's Misbehave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you like old movies and secondhand books?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Cole Porter, this time: _there’s something wild about you, child/ that’s so contagious/ let’s be outrageous/ let’s misbehave..._

Thursday. Rain like angry grieving. Unseasonable, unanticipated, humid and sticky. Sebastian lets his fingers settle over the school’s time-aged piano keys, not thinking, or trying not to think, of anything in particular.

He’s not prepared for rain. His slim-fit black jacket’s excruciatingly stylish and not at all waterproof. His boots might hold up, but there’s a distinct possibility of rain sneaking down between them and his skinny jeans, and he likes having dry feet, thank you.

It’s a small petty thing. He’s aware. But still: he hates feeling dampness around his toes.

He strokes a key pensively, ivory coolness under his skin. Not playing the note, not yet.

He’s entirely aware of how internally hypocritical he’s being. Not as if he’d give a damn about catching pneumonia or consumption or some other interestingly possibly fatal self-inflicted malady, in a storm. It’d be easy. Just one of those things. And then he’d be done. With it all.

But this’s not even a proper storm. Only dismal spitting annoyances. And he likes being dry.

Do people even still get consumption, he muses, and tests a fragment of eighteenth-century waltz, experimental spill of notes out of the past. He can’t recall enough of it; the tune stutters and dwindles, fretful. He doesn’t want to _die._ He just…

...he just doesn’t want much of anything, these days. Wanting is too hard. Numbness is a friend.

His fingers, with a finely-tuned sense of irony, segue into “Autumn in New York.” Sinatra, under the rain.

He does want to stay dry. That’s something he might be allowed to achieve. Manageably sized.

He’s not prepared for...rain. For the way he’s telling himself he can’t leave now.

His scheduled afternoon’s long over. He’s gone through “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” with the most basic students, and--by request--that horribly catchy award-winning song from the latest Disney musical for the slightly more advanced ones. There’d not been a decent single-instrument piano score available, and he’d not even heard the whole song prior to two days ago, but he did remember they’d asked about it the week before. Through the hangover and the fuzziness of ebbing intoxication--vodka, rough primal sex and vicious orgasm, the drugs he’d accepted because why argue, the lurking pain in his wrist--he’d opened YouTube, run through the song a few times, and sketched out an adapted version at two am on Wednesday morning. He thought it’d come out well enough, or well enough to be acceptable.

As usual: what he can do. Well enough to be acceptable.

He could’ve left. When he’d first finished the world hadn’t been raining.

He should’ve left. Instead he’s here. An hour, an hour and a half, past his usual ending time. Playing Sinatra beneath the window, while raindrops shatter themselves on the glass.

He can feel the eyes on him. Chris’s eyes. Deeper blue, more complicated blue, than his own. Hints of green and brown. Kindness.

Chris has been leaning in the doorway of the break room the whole time, one shoulder propped negligently against the peeling frame like he’s comfortable holding up the building and by extension the world. Smiling a little, not as if he’s expecting Sebastian to smile back, not interrupting, but simple and affectionate and fond.

Sebastian’s horrified. Chris can’t be _fond_ of him. They’re not friends. Chris needs to get out, to stay the hell away, as far away as humanly possible. The other side of the globe would be ideal. No chance of himself looking up to see that smile. No dangerous warmth in those artist’s hands.

Too perilous. Too easy to want to fall apart, to let Chris catch him. Too easy to _want._ And wanting hurts, sharp and deadly as broken glass inside his veins.

He doesn’t look that way again. Once was enough. Chris has already seen him in a way that no one should ever see him. Sebastian has a tiny vestige of moral code, stunted and warped though it is, and among his rules are these: don’t bring your life to this school. Don’t bring that to these kids who still amazingly might be happy to see you. Don’t carry the gun on Thursday afternoons even if it does fit in your coat-pocket, and keep the knife in your boot and out of sight. Don’t show up strung-out and hungover and as broken as you know yourself to be.

He’s managed to maintain at least that slim amount of success. Not letting anyone--Anthony, the kids--down.

Except he has let someone down. Chris. Chris’s sea-blue eyes.

Chris has seen him wounded and crumbling at the edges and too damn tired to be anything other than himself, all attendant fucked-up pieces on display. And Sebastian, who knows perfectly well that he’s a coward when it matters and reckless when it doesn’t, can’t look at Chris and see disappointment written over that expressive face.

He’s raincoatless today because his father had Grenier’s coat dry-cleaned and sent back with an exquisitely polite note of apology for the apparel-napping. No words of comment, naturally, about the man having fucked his nineteen-year-old son to the point of unconsciousness, relentless hands pinching and twisting and bruising, laughter as the marks rose like indelible stains.

Sebastian’s not surprised. His father’s disgusted by him, and won’t stop him, because he’s so damned useful in this particular role. He’s matchless at enormous-eyed winsome charm. At maintaining amiable relations with business partners both legitimate and less so. At indulging certain tastes. Sebastian knows what he’s good at, and those things include having quite a lot of sex, being enticing status-symbol arm-candy, holding his arms out for punishing handcuffs, playing innocent and younger than he is for everyone’s most depraved despoilment fantasies, and drinking enough to not give a damn.

He’s not a fan of the harder drugs. He’ll do them if the man he’s with prefers that, wants him submissive and dazed and mindlessly craving. That’d been Friday night. But he hates the sensation of coming down. Hates the way his skin crawls and the world buzzes inchoate around his skull. And he’s seen what happens to the boys who get addicted. So he’s careful.

He’s not careful because he at all cares about his own well-being--that’d be ludicrous, considering--but he does care about his mother and her happiness, and she’d be distraught if anything did finally irrevocably happen to him. She and her new husband, the man with bright intelligent eyes who makes her smile, might come visit. Get involved. And he can’t, won’t, let that come to pass.

Besides, he won’t get addicted because he needs to stay pretty. If he’s not pretty, then he’s properly useless.

He’d watched Chris’s interview, on Monday, through a haze of painkillers and scotch. Chris had sounded so earnest, defending the importance of their school, the work they do in the community, the need for continuing financial support. So beautiful and so _good._ Sebastian’s not fool enough to think that his own impulsively honest marginally-coherent words of a few hours before could’ve made any difference, but if Chris had been nervous on camera no one could tell.

His fingers, mockingly, self-loathingly, pull out “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” from the compliant easy keys. Don’t you know, run the lyrics, little fool, you never can win. Use your mentality, wake up to reality…

The next lines proclaim: each time I do, just the thought of you, makes me stop before I begin; I’ve got you under my skin.

Sebastian scowls at the keys. Ignores the weight of Chris’s gaze on his hands. Switches with pointed careless flamboyance to “Anything Goes.” The world’s gone mad today, indeed. And black is white today, and day is night today. Authors use four-letter words writing prose. Anything goes.

He knows Chris won’t be looking at him with disappointment. Chris is better than that. Better than him.

The rain gets louder, flinging itself at the windowpane, sliding down in trails of grime. No money to pay for window-washing. Nothing made clear.

He’d called the most expensive bakery in the city, well on his way to drunk, Monday afternoon after Chris’s interview. Had dropped a certain name, and got them to send round terrified replacement bagels, free of charge and anonymous, plus chocolate-chip cookies and cronuts because Sebastian happens to like cronuts even if that is an obnoxious hipster trend. There are, he’s concluded, advantages to being the son of the man in charge of ninety percent of New York’s criminal underbelly. For one: cronuts.

And he doesn’t mind being slightly obnoxious. He’s certainly excellent at bratty. Some men enjoy spanking him for it. Anything goes.

The school’s nearly empty. Students melted away to wherever they end up in the evenings. He hopes they’re safe. He hopes someone somewhere can be safe. Somehow. Humming that Disney Princess tune, if it’ll make them happy.

There’s a step over threadbare carpet. Purposely audible. Cheerful clumsy golden-retriever weight, because Chris is more or less an overgrown caretaking puppy of a man, and one who’s noticed and remembered that Sebastian doesn’t like being snuck up on.

That comparison’s too flippant, really. He can admit that much in his own head. Chris can be goofy and too nice for his own good, might wear emotions on his shirtsleeves and his open face. But Chris is graceful when he draws, all that energy arrested and arresting, channeled into art on paper. And Chris gets nervous in front of cameras, but will stand up there anyway and do what he’s been asked to do, to help this school.

“Hey.” Not hesitant, but tentative, as if afraid to disturb the music. It’s not a tune anyway, only improvisations on the last; Sebastian sighs and turns it into the first song that comes to mind, which happens to be “Come Fly With Me,” which suggests that his subconscious has no grasp of either subtlety or common sense.

Chris sounds delighted, not that Sebastian’s looking up to see. “Oh, hey, I love that one! Weather-wise, it’s such a lovely day...you just say the words, we’ll beat the birds down to Acapulco Bay…”

“It is hardly a lovely day.” Damn. Damn, damn. And the rain chooses that moment to taper off, as if mocking his own inability to stick to resolutions regarding sea-blue eyes and not engaging in conversation ever again.

“Sure it is.” Chris watches his hands, obviously undeterred. “Rain is good for, you know, life. Growing things. Hydration. I like it.”

“Of course you do. Would you like me to throw a ball so that you can chase it into the ocean?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Did you need to lock up?” Chris has the second set of keys. Anthony trusts him with that. No one’d asked Sebastian. Not that that would’ve been any kind of good idea.

“I’m your puppy now? Is that it? Do I get to go on walks with you? Can I see your wrist?”

“No, and no.” He leans away as Chris inches forward. “Decidedly not. _Nu._ No. Go away.”

“New bandages?”

“I--why do you even _care?”_ They are. He’d eventually had to shower. When he’d emerged, towel around his waist, hair dripping water, his father and Radu and a decidedly intimidated rabbity doctor had been standing in his room.

“Why don’t you?”

Sebastian loses musical notes, and English verbiage, for a minute. Off-balance. There’s just not a good answer. No words.

“I’m...fine,” he attempts after far too long. God knows what his expression’s saying. Panic, most likely, from the concern at the corners of Chris’s eyes and lips. “No chew toys for you. Go _away.”_

“You’re still not good at being a dick. Want to go for a walk?”

“Didn’t I already say no?”

“Yeah, but you like me being persistent. I saved you a cookie. The weird croissant-donut things were confusing. Do you know anything about that, by the way?”

Sebastian looks at the cookie. Double-chocolate. Wrapped in a napkin. Being waved at him in Chris’s broad hand. “There is nothing confusing about a cronut. Neanderthal.”

“So you did arrange that. Interesting. Do you want this, or should I eat it?”

“....you saved it for me. I shall be gracious and accept.” It’s just a cookie. One cookie. Meaningless.

His cookie. That Chris saved. For him. And it’s chocolate.

Chris grins. Their fingers brush, transferring baked goods. Sebastian nearly drops the cookie into the piano as electricity flares under his skin. Lighting up everywhere, from that simple touch.

He sits on the piano bench, breathless. Chris’s smile gets softer around the edges, as if looking at something precious and rare. Someone treasured.

He says, “I’m not interesting.” Strictly speaking his life would certainly fall under that label, given all the drugs, mobsters, past assassination attempts, and sexual escapades; but it’s best to not even attempt going there.

“I think you’re interesting.” Chris has ink on one cheekbone, like he’d gotten it on a thumb and then absentmindedly touched his face. Sebastian wants to touch it. To skim a finger over that blue-black smudge, learning the feel of skin beneath his hand, the scrape of Chris’s beard.

“...I’m very much not. Sorry to disappoint.” He’s eating the cookie, because otherwise his hand might reach out of its own accord. Chris beams at him. Like this is precisely the most desirable turn of events that could’ve been hoped for.

“Come on,” Chris says. “I’ll lock up. Let’s get out of here.”

And Sebastian, to his own shock, catches himself playing a snippet of “Fly Me To The Moon.” He knows Chris knows it, too. Must know the words: let me play among the stars, let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars…

He tastes chocolate and rain-damp and the solid faded presence of the old bones of the school around them, when he licks his lips.

“What,” he says, standing up, “did you have in mind?”

 

Out in the steel-grey light of the rainy afternoon, brisk and rarefied with the saturated damp, their breaths fog in long columns of white steam. Sebastian looks paler, in this light, his eyes a fascinating liquid turquoise like the ocean in the Caribbean, one of those colors no one can ever create on oil paints. It exists solely there, in Sebastian’s face, lovely and soft like satin.

Chris wonders if Sebastian’ll accept his jacket, if he offers it. Probably not. He’s standing there under the awning looking miserable and hunched in his black leather jacket, clearly designed for looks rather than warmth. His stolen or borrowed coat is missing, and Chris doesn’t want to ask where it’s gone. He doesn’t want Sebastian to use that as an excuse to tell him all about it, trying to drive him away.

He wishes Sebastian would take his jacket. Chris hates how cold and thin he looks, arms crossed, expression belligerent and hostile, like he’ll turn around and walk away at once if Chris offers up any kindness. It hurts to think of, combined with the too-big coat, the bruises, the sprain. Small details slowly coming together. Chris doesn’t like the picture they’re forming. He likes even less the way Sebastian carries the marks, like they’re the stripes on a tiger’s back. Present and indelible. Like they belong where they are.

He needs to get him out of the rain. Somewhere warm--somewhere small, where he’ll feel safe, contained. A place he won’t get a chance to sneak away like a shadow at midday.

“Do you like old movies and secondhand books?”

Sebastian’s face betrays the answer before he can affect his blank, disinterested mask. It’s in the eyes, growing wide and bright with delight, and the upcurve of his lovely dark mouth, a smile so quick and secret it’s almost a flinch.

“Sure,” he says, nonchalant. “Who doesn’t?”

“A lot of people,” replies Chris, shoving the school’s keys into his jeans pocket and carefully not asking Sebastian how he’d gotten inside the school and on the roof, at two am on a Monday, without the keys. “Is your wrist really okay?”

“Most people are idiots,” Sebastian says with genuine disinterest, like ‘people’ is something vaguely unpleasant and mostly irritating he can spare no time for. Maybe Sebastian doesn’t have a lot of friends. “And yes. Are you obsessed? Are you a weird wrist-obsessed person?”

“We’re all weird somehow. It’s just a couple blocks away.”

Sebastian makes a sound of assent, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets and dipping his head to look at the sidewalk as they walk. He has an odd stride, something graceful and cat-like, almost sinuous. He moves his body like a dancer’s, like he knows how to. Chris, who often bangs his elbow on doorways and more than once has been witnessed walking into walls, can’t stop staring out of the corner of his eye.

He studies the curve of Sebastian’s hunched back, his arms close to his body, elbows tucked in, head bowed. It’s not just the cold, Chris can tell; it’s like Sebastian’s trying to make himself small, like he’s trying to disappear, to not be noticed next to Chris at all. He wonders, again, how Sebastian would react to being offered Chris’ leather bomber jacket. Again arrives at the conclusion that pride and something that would look too much like fear would give Sebastian an excuse to act like he’s been offended. He’d snatch up the chance to leave, Chris thinks with an unpleasant turn of his stomach.

“So,” he says after a moment, realizing Sebastian won’t start a conversation. “Chocolate is your kryptonite. I wonder who I can sell that secret to.”

“Hardly a secret,” retorts Sebastian, lifting his head at last to arch a testy eyebrow in Chris’ direction. In the same motion, delicate and subtle, he turns his face and throat away from the cold damp wind. Chris catches himself moving an arm to sling it over his shoulders, aching to pull Sebastian in close to himself. He clenches his fist against the urge, wary of the reaction. “Everybody who knows me knows that. Is yours wrists?”

“Pizza,” corrects Chris, easy and unbothered. “And classic rock.”

Sebastian shakes his head disbelievingly, eyes fleetingly alighting on a tall man as they walk by him. They linger, oddly, narrowing a fraction, before returning to Chris. Chris steals a quick glance at the man, too: tall, dark-haired, with pale skin and paler eyes, with a heavy raincoat discordantly hanging open. Beneath it he wears a casual black suit.

“Can you _be_ more American?”

“I like beer, too,” nods Chris, and then gestures for Sebastian to follow him. He darts forward and gets the door, ushering Sebastian into the old theatre. His hand flies forward out of his own volition, settling comfortable and gentle at the small of Sebastian’s back. The leather jacket is damp and cold, and despite its thinness he can’t feel any heat through its fabric. Sebastian must be freezing. There’s also that split-second reaction that makes Chris’ chest hurt, a spear through his heart: Sebastian leaning back into his hand, like someone starved for warmth, for touch that isn’t bruising and painful. And then the catch; he realizes what he’s done, and he flinches away entirely, crossing his arms tightly and rising his chin. Defiant, petulant. Like an animal hurt one too many times to be able to trust.

“You got me in here to have your wicked way with me, _înrăutăţi?"_

“What did you just call me? We talked about this. Insult me in English, otherwise I can’t act like I believe you mean it. And yeah, I did. Here, in this very public place where I’m a regular and people know me.”

“I did mean it, you might recognize _perverti_ more, and I don’t--”

At this point he looks around, his hand stopping mid-gesture as he realizes where they are.

The Atheneum is Chris’ favorite place in the city. A small old classical theatre, ensconced deep in the block, its humble door hidden between two towering dazzling storefronts.

Rows and rows of tall shelves rise like the two sides of the Red Sea, maze-like, haphazard, arranged around comfortable reading areas. Couches, armchairs and ottomans cluster secretively around mismatched tables. None of the shelves match their neighbours in style, size, or color. Instead of overhead lighting, floor or desk lamps crouch in corners or hang lazy from shelvetops. Strings of christmas lights wrap around weathered, broken stone gargoyles. At the back, a pit in the floor’s been filled with cushions and blankets. An old-fashioned projector is throwing _Casablanca_ into the wall.

Sebastian is speechless, wandering aimless like he’s magnetized to the shelves. His fingertips graze the tomes almost reverently, like he fears his touch will set them alight. His eyes are wide and wonder-struck, childlike in delight.

“What’s your favorite genre?” Chris asks, shrugging out of his jacket. Sebastian glances at him, eyes narrowing. It’s like every little piece of information enquired of him makes him suspicious, like Chris will use this to hurt him, somehow. “Come on. I know this place. I can get you to the best books. You won’t regret it.”

 _Let me help you,_ he doesn’t say. _Trust me._

“Science fiction,” Sebastian confesses, defensive.

Chris grins and starts walking backwards. “Follow me, young padawan. And--did you call me a pervert?”

 _“Da,”_ Sebastian’s answer is hushed, like he fears breaking the atmosphere by raising his voice.

Chris laughs quietly. “I’ll let it slide. Come on, this aisle. Do you like Asimov?”

“He’s my favorite.”

Chris doesn’t try to hide his smile as he gestures for Sebastian to go ahead of him into a narrow aisle flanked by two mahogany shelves on one side and a long black Ikea one on the other. All of these are Asimov books, old and beaten and well-read, dog-eared. Sebastian breathes out, shocked and enamored, immediately getting lost. Restless pianist fingers travel through the backs, tap-tap-tapping words, his face a parade of emotions. Every book is an old friend, once again met.

Leaving his jacket on the back of a chair, Chris watches him. Sebastian’s even more beautiful like this, in the warm golden lamplight, infused with joy, actually smiling, a genuine and gorgeous smile that reaches his eyes.

“I’ll get us something warm to drink,” he says softly. He doesn’t dare ask Sebastian if he has somewhere else to be, and break the spell, the happiness Sebastian has settled into. Chris’s never seen him like this, alive, _vibrant,_ except for when he plays music he loves on the piano, throwing himself whole into the tune, like he can’t help but to give it his all.

But Sebastian does break free of the books for a moment, and his hands drop from the tomes. He ducks his head, turning his face away from Chris, like he’s let something show that should be kept hidden, secreted away inside himself. A wash of anger heats Chris’s spine at the thought of someone making Sebastian fold so far back into himself that he thinks showing what he likes is a mistake. He thinks fast.

“One of the owners here is from Argentina,” he says persuasively. “You know they have this thing in Argentina called ‘submarine’? It’s hot milk, and they drop a whole chocolate bar into it to melt.”

Sebastian gives him a long, flat look. “You can’t bribe me with chocolate every time.”

“Some day, it won’t work,” Chris agrees mournfully. “But, today is not that day. Settle in, pick a few books. I’ll be right back.”

Sebastian spread his hands, gesturing vaguely around himself. _“Nu înţeleg,_ I can’t--pick a few books, what even--?’

Chris is already moving away, and calls back, “Just to read here, you don’t need to buy them,” he darts back into the aisle to arch his brows and say, “And _English.”_

Sebastian’s hands shy away from a book like he’s been caught red-handed. He scowls at Chris, “Learn Romanian!”

“Are you offering to teach me?”

 _“Nu. Lasă-mă în pace._ Submarine. Go.” He waves at Chris like a prince dismissing a lowly servant, eyes already darting between the books. Chris grins and goes, snaking through the aisles to the counter shoved unobtrusively against the far wall.

“Evans,” Jeremy grins at him, waving the cloth he’s wiping the counter with at Chris. “You keep coming here this often, I’m gonna have to offer you a job. Same old same old?”

“I won’t say no to any jobs,” Chris says honestly. “And I’ll have a submarine too, please.”

Jeremy arches his brows, head tilting to the side in impressed surprise. “A date, you dog. No frottage on the shelves, you hear me? Not even the ‘highland romance’ ones.”

“Is that an actual genre? No, wait, I don’t wanna know. And something to eat?”

“Yes, it is a genre.”

“Told you I didn’t want to know!”

“If I have to know, you have to know,” says Jeremy with finality. “Panini ok? Or I have muffins, but chocolate on chocolate seems a bit decadent.”

“I think he’d like decadent, but let’s go for the panini.”

Jeremy’s brows fly up. “Never known you to skip the chance to spoil a date.”

Chris sighs. “Not actually a date. Just hanging out with a friend.”

He wishes, though. He wishes it was a date. He wishes he had the right to reach out and touch Sebastian, catch his hand, squeeze his shoulder, ruffle his short, dark hair. He wishes he had a right to stroke a gentle thumb down the angle of his boyish jaw, across the masculine bump of his Adam’s apple.

Jeremy’s face speaks volumes of his skepticism regarding that affirmation, but he nods as he busies himself with the heating oven, humming a low tune. Chris catches himself looking over his shoulder often, and realizes he’s keeping an eye out in case Sebastian tries to sneak away on him again. Guiltily, he turns back to the counter and keeps his focus on Jeremy’s back as he steams the milk.

“What’s on after _Casablanca?”_

Jeremy turns to him as he thinks about the schedules. _“The Maltese Falcon. The Big Sleep_ after that.”

“Humphrey Bogart day?”

“This week is the forties,” Jeremy explains. “Except for Saturday. Scarlett got her hands on something awesome so we’re breaking code for the night.”

“And what awesome thing is that?”

Jeremy turns around to sit the cups of coffee and hot steamed milk on a tray and grins a grin that would scare any shark worth its salt.

 _“Rocky Horror Picture Show._ Original tape. Pristine.”

Chris whistles, appropriately impressed.

“You should come over,” Jeremy says, putting two heated sandwiches on a plate and settling it on the tray. “Bring your not-date. _Rocky Horror_ is the failproof filter, man. If he dances to time warp, he’s a keeper.”

The idea is painfully appealing, so much so that Chris’ next breath hurts with hope. What if he invited Sebastian, what if--blinding to consider--Sebastian says _yes?_ What if they could have a date, and Chris could have the chance to wrap his hand around the back of Sebastian’s neck, or tangle their fingers together as they watch Janet and Brad walk through the rain.

“I’ll think about it,” Chris promises, lifting the tray carefully and going back to where, hopefully, Sebastian will still be.

Sebastian isn’t on the aisle where Chris left him. He’s taken a chair in the reading sconce right at its end. Taken a chair is exactly the only way Chris can think of describing the image: Sebastian’s sprawled on it, back against the corner of the chair and legs spread, one bent over the armrest and the other stretched out, long as a foal’s. The sight knocks the breath out of Chris’ chest for a brief moment, because the light is gold and warm and Sebastian looks calm, at peace, with a soft fond smile on his lips as he reads Asimov’s _Fantastic Voyage._ He’s shrugged off the leather jacket, tossed carelessly over Chris’ own on the next chair, like they belong together.

Chris leaves the tray on the table and grins at Sebastian until the other boy has no choice but to look up, disgruntled like a wet cat.

“What?”

“Told you you wouldn’t regret it.”

Sebastian gestures ostensibly with his book. “Reading now. Busy. Quiet, please.”

Chris nods and points at the tray. “Eat something. I’ll be right back.”

“Are you fattening me up so you can eat me?”

Laughing, Chris finds the book he’s looking for, slides it from the shelf, and comes back to sit down next to Sebastian, sliding down in the chair until he’s comfortable. He strokes his thumb idly over the thick lettering of _Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,_ absent-minded and affectionate. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Sebastian turning a page slowly, reverently.

There’s so much he wants to ask. He wants to know everything about Sebastian--his favorite book, the first tune he learned in piano keys, which moment of day he prefers, which season he likes the most and why--anything. Everything. He’ll hoard the details like dragons hoard treasures, each glittering and dear.

But he also wants, more than that, for Sebastian to find some calm. To be safe. To trust him. And he thinks this is the way he’ll help Sebastian: quiet, peaceful, patient company. Easy. Undemanding.

Chris suspects Sebastian doesn’t often spend time with people who don’t want a price for their company. Or who are willing to pay for his.

 

This place is warm. That sounds like such a simple sentence. Pronoun, noun, verb, adjective. This is a place, and it is warm.

Shouldn’t matter so much, that simple sentence. But the warmth sneaks into Sebastian’s bones and makes itself at home before he’s quite figured out what’s happened, and by then it’s too late to extract it. He’d have to scrape out his own skeleton. Carve back that hollow space.

Currently that space is filled by absolutely orgasmic creamy chocolate and a secondhand brocade chair with armrests at just the right height to dangle legs over and the friendly rustle of much-loved pages. Not only his own. Chris’ pages. Chris, in the chair on the other side of the table. Chris who’s brought him food and a hot beverage and a refuge.

Chris’d unsubtly pretended to ignore the panini until Sebastian’d given in and picked up half. Really, one of them had to. They both have seen hunger, in cruel and painful manifestations on the streets, in children’s eyes; neither of them wants to waste food. And it was stupid to pretend otherwise, and clearly Chris was testing him, and, Sebastian’d decided, he was simply not going to play whatever waiting game of patience or stubbornness Chris had in mind. Besides, he’d been kind of hungry--strange, because he couldn’t recall the last time he’d been hungry, not merely aware that he ought to have some kind of nutrition in his body--and the rich aromas of toasted bread and melting cheese had set off a few persistent unfamiliar internal signals.

Chris hadn’t looked at all smug, hadn’t even seemed to take the result as a victory. This is confusing. Sebastian’d meant to not let him win, of course, but it almost seems as if Chris isn’t playing. As if Chris genuinely just plans to sit there and smile, very faintly, not even _looking_ at him, _still_ not touching the other half.

Sebastian also does not look up because apparently there are rules to this game, which is exceedingly frustrating because he doesn’t know what they are and how can he be expected to know what Chris wants from him when Chris just carries on being _nice_ , but he does nudge the plate that direction, across the table.

It’s a return challenge. Because whatever else Sebastian is, he’s not afraid to put himself in harm’s way. If Chris does want something from him, then defiance--regardless of subsequent pain--is a good way to figure out what.

Astonished, he replays that sentence in his head. He’d said if. If Chris wants something. As if Chris might…

...not.

Chris’ broad artist’s hand reaches over and picks up the other panini-half. Not trying to give it back, simply accepting that Sebastian’s offered it to him. Taking the gesture at face value: they’re sharing, and if Sebastian’s done, Chris will believe that, and be happy.

Sebastian, suddenly restless, opens his mouth to demand that Chris just come out with whatever it is that’s not being discussed, stops because of that perplexing _if,_ and drowns the bewilderment in another sip of opulent chocolate cream and a petulant rearranging of legs across the chair. Chris, chewing, does not appear to’ve noticed, though he’s not turned a page in quite a while.

The spot at the small of Sebastian’s back tingles where that ink-and-pencil-dust hand had rested. Psychosomatic, of course. No reason that spot should continue to hold any more heat than the rest. It does anyway.

He looks back at the pages of _Fantastic Voyage._ Charlie Grant’s attempting to refuse the mission. Not qualified for anything this scale. Not trained for this job. But, then, who is?

Sebastian’s read this one before. Grant will say yes. Will ultimately agree to science-fictional impossible miniaturization, and will protect his crew as they slip inside a defecting spy’s body and remove the blood clot that threatens the man’s life. Grant will, in fact, save a life, and perhaps two countries, in the end. By signing on to a mission he didn’t want, because it’s the right thing to do.

He stares at the words until they stop making sense. In the background, Humphrey Bogart’s telling Ingrid Bergman to get on a plane.

The universe might be attempting to send him a message. He’s not sure which message it is, though. Get up and leave and go back out into the night, the way he knows he should? Stay put in the chair and smile at Chris because Chris is trying so hard, God knows why, to make him smile, and Chris should never ever be disappointed? What _does_ he want, and can anything _he_ wants possibly be the right thing to do?

He wants at least two things, he realizes, shocked. He wants Chris to be safe. And he wants to stretch out a leg, casually, towards Chris’ chair, where Chris’ legs’re crossed in his direction, and tap their toes together.

He can’t do that. But he’s not getting up, either.

The rain’s come back outside, and the movie’s ending softly on the line about a beautiful friendship, and Chris is smiling at his Douglas Adams, turning a page. Sebastian’s stomach’s full and his fingers aren’t frozen and he feels like he might be happy, if that’s what the hushed golden glow seeping through his skin can potentially mean. Lamplight and sweetness settling into his bones. And the way that Chris’ hair’s curling at the nape of his neck from the damp afternoon.

He should get up. He should go. He should keep Chris safe. He can give Chris up. It’s the only possible choice, the choice that shoves Chris out of the shadows and back into the sunlight.

He will give Chris up. He doesn’t need submarine chocolate and undemanding peaceful kindness and the dry whisper of stories beneath his fingertips. He doesn’t need anyone to take care of him. He doesn’t need anything that he knows he’ll never have.

He’ll give Chris up. For the best. For them both.

Tomorrow. He’ll give Chris up and walk away tomorrow.

He can walk away on any day he chooses. Whenever he wants to. Right now it’s raining. And he happens not to want to. Right now.

That settled, he goes back to the story. Science-fiction and adventure and spy games and hope. Intimate knowledge of another person, from the inside. That last line. A world of terror and joy.

After a while he notices himself leaning toward Chris, toward the table between them. He doesn’t bother to move. It’d be more noticeable if he stopped now, wouldn’t it?

A while after that, as _The Maltese Falcon_ ’s getting to the second murder, he glances up--instincts honed by years of constant low-level awareness regarding assassination attempts--and finds his head bodyguard wandering diffidently over to a shelf a few feet down, wearing a black jacket and a rather baffled sidelong glare. Sebastian can’t blame him for the latter. Hardly the usual routine. Disrupting expectations.

Ah, well. If he’s making life harder for them, everyone fully anticipates as much; not as if Sebastian doesn’t have a reputation as precisely what his father’s made him, a charming brat and a lovely whore and a surprisingly decent knife-fighter when not drunk or otherwise willingly incapacitated, not that most people get to see that last. His father had wanted him to be able to protect himself--can’t have the boss’s son be viewed as easy prey--and a slim stiletto’s easier to conceal than a gun in bedroom situations. He’s never in fact used it to harm anyone, though he does very blurrily recall once landing it, quite accurately considering all the vodka shots, between a man’s legs. That particular man had wanted something even he wouldn’t do. And that’s an impressively short list.

His bodyguard’s looking at him with an expression that says _why are we here, are you playing some sort of game, you know this place isn’t a secure location, and is that hot chocolate??_ Sebastian darts a glance at Chris--still absorbed in the adventures of Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect, good--and throws a scintillating smile back in return, mostly obnoxious with a hint of _yes I’m fine go guard the Heinlein or something_ thrown in. Nikolaj scowls. Mutters something into his coat-collar, unobtrusive and cranky.

Sebastian turns a page. Nikolaj lurks around the Joe Haldeman novels and pretends to be browsing titles. Sebastian kindly does not point out to his head bodyguard that most people don’t read the titles on the same shelf more than ten times in a row. Nikolaj’s shoulders exude enough calm menace that one or two other wandering patrons scurry away. This state of affairs continues for quite some time.

On the flickering projection screen, another person dies in Humphrey Bogart’s office, clutching the statuette of the falcon. So it goes.

Chris glances up. Shifts weight. Goes back to reading. Glances up again as Nikolaj eases a step closer, possibly in order to mutely interrogate Sebastian a second time, and then looks down with a tiny crease forming between his brows. A few minutes later, he finishes the book, gets up, brushes past Nikolaj on the way to pick up the second volume, and sits back down as if his chair’s gotten more uncomfortable in the past few moments.

Sebastian hopes that Chris won’t ask. It’s a desperate hope, tissue-paper holding his worlds apart. And futile, from the way Chris is glancing at him, at Nikolaj, at Nikolaj looking at him; and opening that mouth. “Sebastian--”

“Still reading.”

“There’s someone…”

“Quiet in the library.”

“It’s not a library. That man was outside the school. And now he’s here.”

“Quiet in the theatre, then. We were also at the school, and now we are here.”

“He’s looking at you. Do you know him?”

 _“Know_ is a difficult word…remind me what it means, in English.”

“He doesn’t look happy.”

“Perhaps he despises his life. Or his job. Or himself.” This earns an even more direct glower from his bodyguard. Well, it’s true; it’s not as if Nikolaj cares. Sebastian’s an assignment. He knows as much. He assumes all the members of of his bodyguard detail would be upset if he died, because they’d’ve failed his father, though on the bright side they wouldn’t have to live with that failure for long.

“Is he the one who hurt you?” Chris is moving rapidly past dawning concern and into protective anger. Written on his face, in his voice. “Has he hurt you before?”

Sebastian’s astounded enough by all that emotion--so fierce, so caring, so directed at shielding _him_ \--that he forgets to answer right away. Tactical error, that. Crucial.

All of Chris’ muscles bunch into coiled avenging strength. Also distracting. Chris has a lot of muscles.

Chris sets down _The Restaurant at the End of the Universe_ very precisely, like the loosening of a gun in a well-worn holster. “Do you want me to talk to him for you?”

 

Sebastian’s eyes widen with something akin to horror. Chris has to shove down the urge to set his palms on the armrests of his chair and shove himself abruptly to his feet, march over there and _face_ the man.

What he does instead is sit up straight and turn in the chair so he’s facing Sebastian, who’s closed his own book and is sitting up quickly, long legs twisting away from the armrest and dropping harshly to the floor.

“Wait,” he says, eyes huge and desperate.

“This isn’t okay,” Chris says firmly, quietly, so Sebastian understands Chris isn’t angry with _him._ It’s easy, so easy sometimes, for people in these--situations, to think that anger at what they go through is anger directed at them. But it’s not, of course, never--Chris would never be angry at Sebastian for the life he’s in. That’s insane.

“I know,” says Sebastian softly, and his eyes shutter immediately, body relaxing abruptly into that careless attitude he carries around with him like a cloak. _Do your worst, I can take it._ It makes Chris’ teeth ache with sorrow and banked anger. He’s defending himself from _Chris,_ like he expects Chris to turn him away. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ll just--I’ll go.”

Chris is speechless for as long as it takes for Sebastian to leave the book carefully on the table and get up, grabbing his jacket. By the time he realizes what’s going on, he nearly shoots out a hand to stop Sebastian, and remembers only in the last fraction of a second that snatching at his arm is not at all the correct move.

He gets up instead, putting out his hands, palm-first, so Sebastian will know he’s not going to try to touch him or stop him. He can go if he wants to, it’s just--Chris doesn’t want him to go like this, thinking Chris doesn’t want him here, doesn’t approve of him.

“I meant it’s not okay for him _to do this,”_ he clarifies intensely.

Sebastian’s eyes return to his face, searching and uneasy, as he slowly drags his jacket up his right arm. He’s braced himself for the rejection he thinks inevitable, and now that Chris isn’t rejecting him, he seems unsure of his footing. It breaks Chris’ heart to see how prepared he is to accept people turning him away like a street dog, like it shocks him more when he’s given kindness rather than spite.

“You understand that, right?” Chris asks, voice wanting to break as he searches Sebastian’s eyes for comprehension. “That whatever is--going on, you can… you can get out?”

Sebastian finishes putting his jacket on and rubs his hands down his face roughly. Then he lets them drop with a sinuous motion of his shoulders, something like a violent shrug. His eyes are full of pain when he finds Chris’ again, and the only thing in his face that smiles is his mouth.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding with artificial certainty. “Sure, yeah. I know.”

It hurts to see how clearly he doesn’t believe that. Chris swallows, glances to the side to where the man is now openly staring at them, eyes narrowed. Chris crushes between his teeth the urge to stare right back at him and dare him to come touch Sebastian, because violence is exactly what he has to keep Sebastian from witnessing.

He shakes his head. He has to cross his arms in order not to reach out to Sebastian, not to grasp his shoulder and offer comfort, promise help. He knows he can’t make Sebastian ask for it; Sebastian has to choose. Chris needs him to choose.

“It’s not what… you think,” Sebastian says, hushed, eyes darting everywhere but at Chris.

Chris has been in or witnessed enough situations like this to recognize that this isn’t Sebastian really trying to convince him, but Sebastian trying to find a way to tell him something about himself. It’s not about _Chris,_ is the thing.

“What do you think I think this is?” Chris asks cautiously, aware of the way the man is moving, slowly, behind him. Sebastian’s clear, pained eyes follow his progress.

He shakes his head, something short and harsh like a broken laugh escaping his nose as he reaches up with one hand to ruffle his own hair, violent and brief. The short abrupt shrug again, like his shoulders are too heavy to carry and breathing hurts. A nervous habit, Chris realizes, a motion meant to help dispel the tension building up inside.

Sebastian shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, then takes them out again and pats his jacket.

“I don’t,” he starts, and stops and looks at Chris like he’s sorry he’s such a complete failure at everything. “I don’t have any money on me. I’ll, I’ll pay you back.”

Chris’ breath stutters on the way out, throat closing. “My treat,” he manages, because if he implies he gave Sebastian this expecting nothing in return--he can tell Sebastian isn’t ready for that. He won’t believe it. He might not understand.

Sebastian stares at him for a long moment, almost like he’s trying to remember all his features, and Chris has a panic-stricken moment in which he thinks Sebastian might slip away into the underbelly of New York and never turn up again. He’ll become a ghost, something dear and precious Chris never really got to hold, gone never to be seen again.

“I’ll see you next week,” he offers quickly,

Sebastian’s head tips to the side, breath escaping parted lips. It looks like it _hurts._

“Yeah. Next week.”

He nods twice and makes a vague gesture with his hand, already walking away as he does it, brushing by Chris carefully enough not to touch him. His head is dipped low, face turned away. Chris turns with him, watching him leave, and catches the moment his head lifts, the sharp gesture he makes at the man who’s still watching them. He does know him, then.

The man’s eyes follow Sebastian’s back, but he doesn’t move, for a moment. Then he inhales, deeply, like he’s bracing himself, and brings his wallet out of his inner jacket pocket. Chris stiffens with fury, body growing hot. It either fails to show on his face or the man decides to pay no heed. He’s tall, taller than Chris, sharp features and sharper eyes, broad at the shoulders and economic in motion. Something about him suggests he’s not the type of person you want to run into on a darkened alley at night.

“For the meal,” the man says, some slight trace of a melodious accent on his voice, not unlike Sebastian’s. He offers Chris a fifty dollar bill, folded in half. Like a bribe.

Chris doesn’t take it, and hopes he looks as murderous as he feels.

The man’s mouth curls, a little huff of laughter through his nose. Like Sebastian’s. Mocking mirth. The man shakes his head slowly, and tosses the bill on top of the table by Chris’ book. He tips his head in false goodbye as he turns around and walks away, leaving Chris alone.


	3. Somewhere Only We Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian on assignment, the aftermath of said assignment, and Chris having an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Keane, this time: _this could be the end of everything/ so why don't we go/ somewhere only we know_
> 
>  **Warnings:** contains a section of Sebastian on assignment, which involves rough (not super-explicit in terms of what goes where, but clearly rough) sex and drug use and dubcon that verges on noncon--that is, Sebastian knows why he's there and what he's doing, and he accepted the assignment when sent, knowing what would likely happen--but he doesn't really feel like he can say no to his father and his father's uses for him, and eventually, given the drug use and the situation and how rough the sex is, he _can't_ say no. (Good thing Nikolaj's around...)
> 
> If this is problematic, we humbly suggest you skip from the end of the first Chris POV section to the first appearance of Nikolaj in the Sebastian POV section, when help arrives. 
> 
> This is probably the worst things get ~~for a while~~ and there's a LOT of comforting and cuddles in Chris' bed coming in the next chapter. It'll be okay. We promise happy endings.

A Thursday, another Thursday, another week, and Chris doesn’t know what to do.

More accurately, he knows that he should do nothing, unless or until he actively witnesses abuse. He can’t step in, can’t make Sebastian talk to him, lean on him, confide in him. He’s had the training. He understands that an intervention without perceptible immediate cause, however well-intentioned, will deny Sebastian choice and agency and self-reliance. Sebastian has to want to get out of…

...out of what, precisely, Chris doesn’t know, though he could hazard a guess. And that hurts, the not knowing. Even though it shouldn’t, even though it’s not personal, nothing to do with him, everything to do with Sebastian feeling safe or not. Rationally, he comprehends as much.

It still hurts. Every day in which Sebastian doesn’t feel safe enough to come to him, it hurts. It sears. Acid like failure under his skin. And he’s lonelier for it. Him and the acid.

He’d thought--and maybe he’d been stupid, thinking it--that those nights might’ve meant more. That a shared moonlit sofa and bandages and used books and old movies might add up to more than the sum of their disparate parts.

Well, he never did go to college. Not very good at math.

He sighs. Tosses keys from one hand to the other. A second Thursday, two weeks since their night at the Atheneum, and this afternoon Sebastian’s already gone. Gone, as he’d been the week before, vanished between one eyeblink and the next. Gone the second Chris’d turned away from the piano, distracted, a girl tugging at his sleeve to ask whether she could wait an extra half hour for her brother to show up and walk her home. When he’d turned back, the piano-bench’d been vacant.

Of course it’s on purpose. Sebastian doesn’t want to see him. That’s a message.

Chris could leave after his own art class, could let Anthony lock up on Thursdays. He’s stayed the extra hour, listening to the swoops and twirls and ripples of melody, for two weeks now, and told Anthony to go home.

Sebastian had looked thinner, the previous week, though unbruised. This week the bandages around his wrist’d come off and he’d played like a fallen angel in the ten minutes before his proper class began, warming up and sending great darkly-winged swoops of melody into the air, perilous and dissonant and enthralling. Chris had forgotten to breathe for a while, standing in the doorway of the break room, and then had remembered, and gulped in air.

There’d been Chopin today for the students who wanted to try, and something Chris vaguely recognized as a Maroon 5 tune briefly being butchered by one of the teenage girls. Sebastian’d bent that head closer to hers, murmured words, gestured with one eloquent hand. Notes in the air. She’d tried again. It’d been better. Not perfect, but better. Of course it had.

After she’d left--and Chris had noticed that, that Sebastian’d waited until she was out of earshot--expressive practiced fingers had spun aureate melody out of Adam Levine-and-company’s pop ballad, flowing and flawless. Sebastian hadn’t looked up, smile faint and crooked and wry, finishing the song once through with no stuttering or skips as if in apology to the tune; and then had paused and run hands over his face, through his hair.

Chris had almost come over. Had almost held out a hand. Had been diverted by that tap at his sleeve. No one’s fault.

He checks the windows, makes sure the side door’s locked, crosses the empty open space of the main room. His footfalls echo, ghostly.

He runs through everything he does know, in his head. It’s become habit, these past weeks. Thinking about Sebastian. A companion, even when not present; he’s in Chris’ thoughts. Chris wonders momentarily whether he himself is ever in Sebastian’s, then stops wondering. There’s no answer that doesn’t sting. Acid, hello.

He goes through the familiar litany again instead as if he might uncover some new missing coin, some gold tucked away in a heretofore undiscovered crevice. One: Sebastian flinches when touched with kindness, not as if he doesn’t want to be but as if he’s never expecting it. Two: Sebastian deflects any attempt to care for him, deploying verbal spikes like a startled baby hedgehog, prickly and scared. Three: Sebastian loves science fiction and chocolate and feeling warm, and had, for a single unguarded moment on a rainy afternoon, smiled like sunlight, and had let Chris see.

Four: Sebastian had known that man, the one who’d followed them, the dangerous one. The man who’d tried to give Chris money--too much money, a warning: Sebastian’s time is valuable. Stay away. Five: Sebastian had been hurt, that first night. Worse, had accepted the hurt as if inevitable. Hadn’t been eating. Had been coming down from an alcoholic high, at the very least, and probably more. Other things. Darker. Addictive.

It’s an ugly picture he’s drawing. He’s an artist, or trying to be. He knows the ways lines connect, the shapes behind the sketches. This one makes him want to be ill. Sebastian’s so lovely, and so kind even when trying so very hard to push him away, and that’s the other point, or two points, the ones that complicate the outline and make it harder to see. He spins the keyring around his finger, flicking off the last glowing lights.

Six: Sebastian volunteers here, is...permitted by someone...to volunteer here, and cares, very obviously cares, written in every motion of articulate hands, every bit of attention paid to kids asking questions, every patient correction of clumsy unpracticed fingers on old ivory keys. Sebastian paid for new pastries, two weeks ago come Monday, which brings him to point seven, which is that Sebastian obviously has money, or at least access to money, since he doesn’t appear to carry any himself. The food and the casually stylish wardrobe shout as much.

Money, of course, might be made in...a certain profession. That profession. Such an old one, that profession. And Sebastian _is_ lovely. Valuable.

Chris values him. It’s an odd thing to think, but he does; and then pauses on the front steps, arrested by it. He _does_ value Sebastian. More, he’s impressed: those pale-ocean eyes, despite everything they’ve seen, show up here week after week, and never fail. And Sebastian had told him, that first dreamlike evening, that he’d be fine. That the interview’d go well, because Chris was someone worth trusting.

It _had_ gone well. They’d gotten a small but significant wave of donations. Repairs to the east window, to the broken toilet. Sanctuary, stumbling on.

He’d heard that faintly-accented mythology-in-New-York voice in his head again, before stepping out in front of the cameras. Had ended up smiling, because maybe if someone else thought so, said so under a circle of golden lamplight, it might be true.

Sebastian’s the sort of person who will say nothing, until it’s important. And then will say everything, with one sentence, carefully selected from that multilingual jewel-box. With one look.

Sebastian, exhausted and wounded and honest, had chosen to say something to him. An act of courage, out of the dark.

Chris knows all the reasons to not push. He knows there must be more, reasons and histories and stories he’s not heard.

He just wishes the words’d been true for them, when Sebastian had talked about trust. He just wishes he could stand beside those pale eyes in that dark, maybe with a kiss, maybe only holding hands, maybe quietly shoulder to shoulder in support.

He just wishes Sebastian could be happy.

He’s not offended that Sebastian’s shoving him away this hard. He gets it, he really does. Spikes, and self-defense, and maybe defense of Chris too, because Sebastian seems to think that Chris needs to be kept safely away by any means possible, and, hell, that might even be another truth. The nameless man with the money’d been deadly. Not simply in a brainless street-thug manner. As if he’d kill without ceremony, whenever a death might be required to neaten the world.

Chris isn’t offended. But it does hurt. He’s seen Sebastian smile once. And the absence of that smile flutters unhappily behind his breastbone. Lonely. Wanting more.

He walks back to his apartment--only a couple blocks, and while it’s not the best neighborhood it’s also not the worst, mostly run-down and clinging to pride. Besides, there’re easier targets than a six-foot-plus guy with visibly honed muscles. Chris isn’t exactly proud of his body, as such--it’s just his body, and he keeps it in shape because doing things with muscles is easier than doing them without, and anyway he likes running in the cool silvery silence of city mornings--but it does come in handy as far as nighttime strolls or helping elderly neighbors go.

He’s got a one-bedroom place, not fussy, currently decorated in pizza boxes and pencil-smudges and guitar. Sketchbooks litter available surfaces in case he has an idea in the kitchen or before bed, and when he opens the window the sunset air curls in friendly as a kitten and makes itself at home.

The unfinished sketch lying on his all-purpose second-hand table is of Sebastian. He looks at it for a while, not picking up the pencil, not opening the beer he’s collected from the fridge.

It’s a rough piece, this one, barely an outline. He’d been trying to capture that elusive smile, to conjure it back out of memory. The eyes keep tripping him up, wanting to be sad, wanting to be happy, wavering in between.

Around the bottom of the page, disconnected, run tiny studies of Sebastian’s mobile hands. Lost in music, transported by art, forgetting to brace up those walls.

Sebastian’s not played any Sinatra, lately.

The Maroon 5 song’s stuck in his head, though. Chris opens up the laptop, fires up YouTube out of curiosity and a hope that playing it back’ll get the damn thing to go away, and runs through four plaintive love songs before he finds the right one.

Huh. That one. Those lyrics. He drains half the beer, thoughtfully. Eyes his guitar. Of course, Sebastian might’ve been answering a specific request for a specific song. Or might’ve chosen that one, given only a request for that band. No way of knowing.

But: it’s not over tonight, say those lyrics. Just give me one more chance to make it right, I may not make it through the night, I won’t go home without you.

Chris never has been good at stepping aside. At not caring. At acting as if he didn’t care. He wants to do something, to do _everything_ , to help carry the people he cares for. Not because they’re helpless. Because they deserve all the help he can give.

I may not make it through the night, he hears in his head. Those lyrics. Sebastian.

He’s never really been a pop fan. Classic rock, thanks, and loud.

The evening, settling in, is a warm one, and companionable. He picks up the guitar. Tests chords. Considers song options, other hand looking up lyrics and music. There seem to be a lot of Maroon 5 hits. Hmm.

Halfway through “Love Somebody” for the fifth time, he pauses to order Chinese. Opens a third beer. And goes back to memorizing, himself and the guitar and the moon hanging low in the sky.

He can get this by next week. He’s fairly sure he can, at least enough to not ruin an attempt. He’ll have to be casual about it, like there’s some plausible reason he’s brought his guitar along to the school, like he’s not subtly trying to tempt Sebastian into smiling through terrible pop-music angst, like he’s possibly been a super-secret fan of Adam Levine and his tattoos all along. To be fair, Chris is inclined to respect a man with an evident love of tattoos. He’s contemplating a sixth, himself, though that’ll take money, and it needs to be significant, not done on a whim. Personal. Worth the permanence.

Sebastian’s smile would not, unfortunately, transfer well to ink on Chris’ hip. He’d need a far better sketch, in the first place, and he’s not sure any sketch could ever do justice to that ephemeral shooting-star joy.

Right. Focus. A week to practice, to plan. And maybe, maybe, next Thursday will be, if not the single unparalleled wondrous moment of chocolate-flavored radiance amid bookshelves and Bogart lines, at least not lonely.

 

He watches his fingers on the keys. The music flows, melancholic and calm, infused with as little emotion as he can considering the piece he’s playing. Soon enough, about four minutes in, the music will pick up, angry at its own sadness, furious at itself. Fitting.

He lets the music shake in his bones, shimmering and warm, tension building beneath his fingertips, along the tops of his shoulders and the back of his neck. Exhaling, he gives the music its due; the anger and the violence it demands, fingers brushing precisely along the ivory keys, emotion pulled from him inexorably like metal goes to a magnet.

Then, when the violence ends, he shakes his head at the display. Such things are best kept to himself, or played only for his mother; she never judges him, her eyes always kind and loving, her hands never anything but tender on his face.

He feels the weight at his posture-perfect straight back before the hand wraps around his throat, tilting his head up. He lets his hands drop from the piano, wary of hurting the melody.

“You don’t know anything nicer?” the man towering above him asks, tugging so Sebastian will lean back against his chest and stomach, face turned upwards. The smile, false but charming, comes easily to Sebastian’s lips; a long lazy curl of lips and an exhalation of mirth through his nose. He can’t think of anything nicer than Chopin’s 4th ballade, but he knows better than to argue. Perhaps his indulgence of his mood was a mistake; the song _is_ melancholic.

“Okay,” he says, smiling at the man--what was his name, Thomas? Something like that, Sebastian is fairly sure.

Allowing his weight to rest back against Thomas, Sebastian leads his hands back to the piano and starts a light, uncomplicated rendition of Steven Cravis’ _Through the Kaleidoscope._ Modern, optimistic, faster-paced music.

Thomas laughs, hand descending to lie flat against Sebastian’s chest where his shirt is parted, first few buttons already undone.

“You can still play like this, how many shots have you had?”

Sebastian shakes his head slowly. Abruptly, he stops playing and reaches to the top of the piano where the lid’s been lowered, picks up one of the whiskey shots and downs it quickly.

“Not enough,” he says as he slithers up to his feet, shoulder and arm brushing pointedly along Thomas’ stomach and chest.

“I’m sure we can fix that,” Thomas suggests, catching him by the arm and shoving him in the direction of the couch. Sebastian glances around to ground himself, to shake off the last dregs of the insidious sadness that had been clawing up his throat.

An outrageously expensive hotel room. A well-stocked bar in the corner, half-depleted. Four rich men of varying ages to be entertained by boys and girls possessing the transient kind of otherworldly beauty that brings nothing but pain. And Sebastian. Pretty boy, can play the piano, will entertain without discretion. A bargain!

He collapses on his back on the couch, legs sprawled out invitingly. Why dither? He and Thomas both know where this is going. The faster it ends, the faster he can go. The piano was a surprise; a pleasant one, one he’s grateful for. He’s been playing for more than half an hour. It’ll make the rest of the night more palatable.

Thomas stops at the coffee table and brings something over, eschewing the seat next to Sebastian to kneel above him instead, knees firmly against Sebastian’s hips.

“How about we make this interesting?” he murmurs, dropping a little plastic bag on Sebastian’s chest.

Cold washes through Sebastian, like frost through the previously warm confines of his chest. He knows those pills. He’s taken ecstasy before; it never ends well. He leaps right through the supposedly pleasurable effects and down right into the anxiety, the restlessness, the agitated vague fear of something he can’t quite spot.

He swallows, smiles. Wraps his hands around the jutting bones of Thomas’ hips and pulls him down to sit on his lap, arching his back in a well-known, familiar facsimile of pleasure. It’s all an act, anyway, and the world’s a stage, right. “I think I’ll just stick to the drink, man.”

Thomas laughs, picks up the bag and snaps it open, shaking out two pills. Sebastian’s stomach turns, eyes following the movement of Thomas’ hands like a hawk. He knows what’s coming, which is bad.

Leaning to the side towards the coffee table, Thomas wavers. Sebastian grips him tighter to steady him, and grins lazily when Thomas shoots him a look that suggests he thinks Sebastian just can’t stand the idea of letting him go. Sebastian could reconcile himself very quickly to that idea, but he shrugs. Thomas comes back with a glass of champagne; downs half it it along with his pill. He slides a hand beneath the back of Sebastian’s neck to encourage him to sit up, and offers pill and glass.

The hesitation must be visible, because Thomas sits back to look at him, brows quirking. “What’s the matter?”

Sebastian smiles. “Nothing. Been a while, that’s all.”

Thomas’ brows arch, suspicion dissolving into loud laughter. “You’re in for a treat. This is the good stuff. You’ll see.”

“Yeah,” says Sebastian, laying the small pill on his tongue and swallowing a mouthful of champagne, little bubbles stinging his aching throat, tightened with anxiety. “I guess I will.”

Thomas descends on him, slow lazy kisses and leisurely petting, hands stroking without urgency along Sebastian’s flanks and thighs, seeking to stoke a fire that he can’t know hasn’t ignited. Sebastian feels frozen, not only by the lack of unwelcome arousal, but by the slowly mounting fear of what’s going to happen in twenty minutes with the E kicks in. He’s been here before and he knows he needs to get his mind off it, though; and he does after all have available distractions, although Thomas is not what he would normally consider attractive.

So he gives into the kiss, into the petting. Spreads his legs and settles down in the couch, on his back, inhales when Thomas bites his lip, laughs quietly when a hand tangles in his hair.

It passes the time.

It feels like it hits him all at once, his heart racing abruptly. The muted, sober dark colors of the room leap suddenly in his eyes, brightened and blurring, bleeding one into the other.

 _Kaleidoscope,_ he thinks, and buries his fingers in the bared muscles along Thomas’ back, arching, arching, dazed. Thomas’ laugh is loud and startling in his ear; he flinches, laughs, surges up chasing that mouth. They hit the floor in a pile, Thomas at the bottom. Sebastian’s knees hurt with the impact. He pushes his shoulders back when Thomas shoves the shirt down his arms, helping--he thinks. His fingers clumsy at Thomas’ belt. He pulls it harshly from the belt loops, looking up, distracted--two of the girls are dancing, a beat slow and sultry like a secret. His eyes linger, hands stalling; Thomas shifts, impatient, hard and hot beneath Sebastian, and Sebastian laughs. Rich and spiced like whiskey in his throat, that laugh.

Thomas grasps the hair at the back of his neck, sitting up, pushes Sebastian back, unbalanced; he sprawls on the carpet, hand smacking the coffee table leg. A jolt of pain from his knuckles to his elbow, electric and blinding. Thomas swallows his yelp, catches his wrists against the carpet. It tickles, soft and deep. His hand around Sebastian’s jaw pushes his head back, then the hands are gone--Sebastian can feel his suit pants dragged down his legs, the butter-soft tailored wool catching, breath-taking, on the soft hairs of his thighs.

“Wait,” he manages, dizzy with sensation, head spinning. Thomas looks up; the light of the lamps catches across his pale eyes, draining them of color. Barely-tinted glass. Inhuman. A frisson of something like fear races down Sebastian’s spine, arresting his breath. Beyond Thomas’ shoulders, the girls are dancing, pressed closed together, sharing quiet words, trapped between the cool light from the windows and the warm light from the lamps. The backs of their heads, their hair, is alight; their faces are trapped in a territory of shadows. Sebastian swallows, an odd and bitter taste in his mouth like ashes.

“You’re right,” says Thomas, eyes wide and colorless. “Let’s go to my bedroom.”

Sebastian struggles to say ‘stop’ and ends up saying “Yeah.” Whatever lies between those two options is lost to him entirely. Thomas grabs Sebastian’s wrist and pulls. Muscles sore and not quite healed complain; Sebastian bites his lip and scrambles up, breathing in against the surging tide of anxiety wriggling in his belly like worms.

When they’re on the bed, and Sebastian can’t quite manage to relax, Thomas laughs in his ear and turns him on his stomach, soothing hands all down his spine, tapping against the inside of his thighs.

“I’ll make it good,” he promises, pressing down on the back of Sebastian’s neck to keep him against the mattress.

Sebastian swallows and closes his eyes. He knows this part.

It passes the time.

The sun wakes him, a stray bright ray across his face. He’s face-down on the bed, naked, aching. His mouth feels cottony and parched. His head is fit to split in half. He has to grit his teeth against the nausea when he sits up, stumbles to the bathroom to have water from the tap. His hands shake under the cool stream, too unsteady to hold a glass.

He looks at himself in the mirror, a passing glance; he’s too disgusted to look for long, so he makes his way back to the bedroom, finds his boxers. The rest of his clothes are on the room outside. He has to take a deep breath in order to brace himself for the sight; for hunting the fragments of his expensive three-piece suit across the devastation of the hotel room. Bottles and glasses broken on the carpet. One of the girls is sleeping naked curled on the couch. Sebastian takes the time to lay a hand on her shoulder and take her pulse with trembling hands before kneeling to drag his shirt from under the table. She shifts and mumbles in her sleep, eyes flickering beneath the tangled curtain of her dark hair.

It takes precious minutes to tie on his shoes. His fingers are clumsy and feel cold, cold like the horror climbing up his throat, clogging his lungs like inhaled smoke. Shivers wreck up and down his spine.

He finds his waistcoat tossed rumpled across a chair, and is struggling into it when--

“You’re not leaving, are you,” Thomas asks, walking into the room sleep-rumpled and drowsy-eyed, wearing nothing but a fine silk dressing gown. He comes closer and wraps his arms around Sebastian’s waist, leaning down to kiss his exposed throat. “I’d love it if you could stay.”

Sebastian closes his eyes, shoulders slumping. Anxiety and restlessness knot tightly at the pit of his stomach like lead. He’s still shaking, head and neck throbbing. The air feels strangely textured when he inhales, dragging along the insides of his nostrils, velvety and thick. He’s crashing, and it’s only starting.

He thinks of the last time, his last big crash after drugs. Chris’ hands warm and gentle on his wrist, cornflower-blue eyes and an honest, genuine smile. He thinks of Chris in the bookstore, an easy and undemanding company at his side, calm, warm like summer sunlight.

Chris’ eyes, wounded and sad, for the last two weeks, every time Sebastian’s failed to look at him, every time he’s brushed by him, indifferent like a stranger, on his way out the door.

That’s how it has to be. And that’s enough for now. He pushes Chris out of his mind; he has no place here, Chris with his heart on his sleeve and his summer-sky-blue eyes.

His lips curl automatically into a teasing smile, eyes half-lidded and laughing. He knows this part. “Can’t get enough of me, huh.”

Thomas laughs against his mouth. Sebastian drops the waistcoat to the chair. He lets Thomas drag him to the bedroom, lets him throw him on the bed and strip him. Accepts the glass of whiskey pressed to his palm, though the first swallow threatens to come back up his throat. He keeps it down. The second is easier. He bends his knees when Thomas reaches between his legs.

He knows this part.

Sometime later--can’t tell the hour with no clocks, though the sun is coming down--Thomas settles back straddling his hips and feeds him strawberries. Through the haze of his increasing drunkenness Sebastian understands he hasn’t eaten in too many hours. The strawberries taste rich and startling on his tongue, an unexpected starburst of flavor. Thomas’ teeth are surprisingly white in the dim bedroom. Sebastian sits up, twists him playfully to the side, and settles in the cradle of his pelvis. For a change of pace. It’ll pass the time.

Thomas scratches him, stinging lines of heat from the back of his neck to his buttocks. Sebastian bites back the protest, laughs.

He finds and checks his phone after he takes a shower. One am, Monday. He’s been here since Saturday evening and this has already run longer than he intended. Thomas is deeply asleep on the bed, but Sebastian isn’t sure he’s done, isn’t certain he’s free to leave. He pulls on his pants and goes to the kitchenette, hoping to find something non-alcoholic and cool to drink. His throat is parched and aching; his jaw hurts.

He pours himself a glass of water and thumbs at the screen on his phone, thinking he should probably let Nikolaj know he’s alright. Always best for business if he prevents his infuriated armed-to-the-teeth bodyguard from storming hotel rooms in search of foul play--in hopes of it? Sebastian can only imagine the relief, if Nikolaj could be rid of him and move onto more interesting assignments.

A hand snags the phone, tossing it back into the living room. Sebastian flinches, looking up. It’s not Thomas.

This man is older than Thomas, broad shoulders and powerful arms, wearing nothing but sweatpants. Sebastian knows the edge in his dark green eyes, a familiar one: greedy and cruel.

“Remember me, pretty boy?” he asks, hands settling familiar and possessive at Sebastian’s hips. Sebastian’s eyes dart across his face, studying his features, handsome but hard.

“Hobbes,” he says, breath unsteady, muscles stiffening. He does remember Hobbes. From a while back. He remembers the livid bruises, muscle-deep and slow to heal, and the casual careless cruelty.

Hobbes smiles. It’s a smile Sebastian can imagine on a lion, before he tears an antelope apart.

“Too early to leave, pretty boy,” murmurs Hobbes, crowding in close to drag his tongue up the side of Sebastian’s neck, following the long tendon from clavicle to the back of his ear. Sebastian’s breathing speeds, stuttering and quick.

“I,” he says, voice failing him as Hobbes’ hands slide down the line of his spine. “I, Thomas and I. I should, he’s sleeping.”

“He won’t mind,” says Hobbes easily, sliding a hand up to wrap tightly around Sebastian’s bicep. A warning. A brand. He pulls back and drags Sebastian back to his own bedroom with that hand on his arm, his grip like iron, painful. Shoves when they reach the bed so Sebastian falls across it; doesn’t bat an eyelash when Sebastian scrambles up to sit on the edge of the mattress, terrified that there will be violence if he gets up but equally terrified of what will happen if he just stays there, on his stomach, on the bed.

Hobbes laughs. His hand lands on Sebastian’s bare shoulder, hot and heavy.

“You’re tense, poppet,” he says fondly. “I know what will relax you.”

That hand slides up to Sebastian’s cheek, thumb stroking a cheekbone, then travels back to cradle Sebastian’s skull. The pressure is enough to turn Sebastian’s face towards the bedside table. There’s a mirror in it, with a single, short white line of powder. Sebastian swallows warm bile, head shaking in negative without his permission. Hobbes’ hand tightens. He’s not shoving him towards it--yet. But his eyes have narrowed, and the line of his mouth is taking that edge, the edge Sebastian remembers all too well. Breath shudders in Sebastian’s breast as he inhales.

He nods. Bends to the bedside table.

Inhales.

In the blurred haze of the following hours he’s uncertain of what happens, unsettled by his compliance but unable to muster enough consciousness for fear or pleasure. Hobbes is everywhere; his deep British voice and the coarse hair at his chest against Sebastian’s back, his teeth biting harshly along his shoulders and nape. Bruises on his biceps and wrists, on his hips where he grips him to keep him down. His grip is punishing on Sebastian’s hair when he shoves him down on his knees on the carpet.

Hobbes likes calling him names as he fucks him, harsh words that grate against Sebastian’s ear and cut him up as deep as any knife. Things Sebastian already knows he is, whether anyone calls them that or not; so when Hobbes makes his breath catch with a painful thrust, brutal and possessive, and demands an answer, it’s easy to agree.

Yes. He knows. He knows this part.

Impossible to tell the time. It passes, slowly, slowly, in alternating swoops of pain and its absence. Fear coils restless like a snake in his stomach, tight inside his chest. The crash from the high makes it impossible to eat anything, though he dutifully swallows when Hobbes holds glasses of water to his lips, a master feeding his pet. Hobbes’ smile is dark against his dark stubble, his eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction when he pulls at Sebastian’s hair, baring his throat for idle bites.

But it does pass. Eventually, Hobbes gets in the shower, and lets him rest. It takes a while for sleep to find him. On his side on the bed, he stares unblinking out the window. Daylight breaking through the buildings. Dawn. Day rises from the clouds like bruises on Sebastian’s skin. He stares, and breathes.

Startles awake with a shadow looming indistinguishable in front of him, calm low voice softly accented. Familiar. The hands on his shoulder and back are gentle. That, more than anything, is what alarms him. He struggles to lift his head, squinting in the late-morning sunlight. His eyes focus at last.

“--hear me? Sebastian?” Nikolaj is crouching by the bed, pale eyes narrowed in the light.

“What?” Sebastian mumbles, confused.

Nikolaj’ jaw sets. Sebastian realizes suddenly that Nikolaj is _furious_. A wash of cold horror travels down his back. He didn’t send a message to let him know everything was alright; Nikolaj is seething at his negligence.

“‘m sorry,” he mumbles, struggling to put his arms under himself to sit up.

“Well, that fixes nothing, does it?” snaps Nikolaj, sliding an arm beneath his chest and practically sitting him up, unaided. “What did they give you this time?”

Sebastian is too busy feeling the world spin around him and swallowing bile to answer that. Nikolaj hates it when he doesn’t answer questions; the bodyguard huffs, disgusted, and grabs his arms to check for puncture marks. Grits his teeth when Sebastian flinches, hard grip on darkening bruises.

Nikolaj growls and lets him go brusquely, like it revolts him to touch Sebastian’s skin. Understandable. He stands over him, tall and dark silhouette against the window; a long, measured inhale. For calm. For patience.

“Can I take you home?” he asks quietly.

Sebastian’s throat closes on the tide of gratitude, and he has to swallow. He opens his mouth at once to say ‘please’ and then pauses, looking around. The bed, the room. Hobbes. Thomas.

He hesitates. Are they done? He’s not sure he’s free to leave yet. Hobbes likes taking his time, and--

“It’s Wednesday,” Nikolaj says, tone completely flat, devoid of any emotion. Simple fact. Information.

Wednesday.

Horror grips Sebastian by the throat, like beetles crawling beneath his skin. Ice rushes down his veins. “Oh god. Oh no, shit. Nikolaj--”

“Alright,” Nikolaj grips his shoulders, bracing and calm like a statue. “Breathe. I’ll take you home, stay calm.”

“Oh god, _Îmi pare rău, vă rog_ \--”

“ _E în regulă,_ ” Nikolaj interrupts firmly, handing him his pants, snatching the covers away without a single twitch of remorse. “Just get dressed. Can you stand?”

Sebastian looks at the wool of the pants in his hands, miserable. “ _Nu știu,_ ” he admits, hot-skinned with shame. He doesn’t know.

Nikolaj makes no comment as he slides an arm around his back to help him up, eyes watching like a hawk for winces and pain. Sebastian wobbles, but manages to put on his own pants as Nikolaj disappears into the main room, silent as a shadow. A thrill of fear spears through Sebastian when he leaves, and he has to swallow the impulse to ask Nikolaj to come back and stay. He shouldn’t put Nikolaj through this; he’s a hand-to-hand specialist, not a babysitter for fuck-ups like him.

Shaking, he sits down on the edge of the bed and grips his arms, nausea roiling. Nikolaj returns presently, with his shirt, waistcoat, and jacket, his tie folded and shoved into the pocket of his coat.

“Put this on,” he says, crouching to help Sebastian into his shoes. He puts both of them on before Sebastian manages to coordinate his limbs enough to put the shirt on, and spends a long moment watching him fumble clumsy with the buttons before brushing his hands away and buttoning them up himself.

“ _Îmi pare rău,_ ” Sebastian says, throat strangled with tears.

“Stop apologizing. Put on the waistcoat and jacket. I’ll find your coat. Where’s your phone?”

Sebastian shrugs. Nikolaj makes a noise of distaste and storms out of the room, a hurricane of anger and revulsion, efficient as a bullet to the head. Sebastian stumbles to his feet and obeys, putting on his waistcoat and jacket unbuttoned. He’s standing on somewhat steadier feet by the time Nikolaj returns, long wool coat folded over one arm, a glass of water on the other.

“Drink this,” he orders, reaching inside Sebastian’s suit jacket to slide his phone into his inner pocket. Sebastian obeys without a word, taking small sips. “Ten missed calls, seven messages. I already spoke to your father. You need to call your mother, once you sound human.”

Sebastian nods. Shrugs into the coat when Nikolaj holds it up for him. Lets Nikolaj pull it closed, lets Nikolaj wrap the scarf around his neck and tie it loosely, warm but not constricting. Then Nikolaj grabs him by the arm and leads him out of the room, hand firm but careful not to cause pain.

The ride in the car is long and difficult. Sebastian feels like he’s going to throw up, the silence burning and tense. Nikolaj says nothing, driving with aggressive sharp motions, as quickly as he can manage in the Brooklyn streets.

He opens the door to Sebastian’s apartment mutely, takes the coat, and orders him to shower. When Sebastian comes out of the bathroom, skin pinked with heat and scrubbing, still feeling filthy and disgusting, Nikolaj curtly orders him to eat. Scrambled eggs and orange juice. It stings down his raw throat. Nikolaj’s motions are sharp and violently efficient as he cleans what he used to cook. He doesn’t look at Sebastian when he orders him to go to sleep. Can’t stand the sight of him.

Sebastian says nothing, making as little noise as he can manage as he shuts his bedroom door and lies down on his bed. He thinks it’ll be impossible for sleep to find him, but eventually it must, because he wakes up, sometime later, sweating in his hoodie and sweatpants under the covers.

He realizes at once that waking up is a bad idea; everything hurts. He feels wooden as he sits up, as flexible as an iron pole. He must make a noise, because there’s a knock on the door. His voice is hoarse when he calls for Nikolaj to come inside.

The downwards twist of Nikolaj’s mouth as he lays eyes on him is painfully eloquent.

“It’s a Thursday,” Sebastian rasps. “What time?”

Nikolaj’s jaw works. “Nearly four.”

Sebastian inhales sharply. He’s due at the school in an hour and a half. He shoves at the covers, hissing at the pull of sore and bruised muscles.

“You should stay,” Nikolaj says, coming over to help him. “You’re in no state to be going anywhere. I’ll call someone. We’ll get somebody to replace you. I know a violinist.”

Sebastian shakes his head, vehemently at first and then slowly when that hurts. He looks at Nikolaj, throat closed with shame and tears, begging him to understand. “I promised.”

Nikolaj inhales--that one inhale Sebastian knows well, long and bracing, for patience.

“Are you sure you want those kids to see you like this?” he asks, voice even. “Christopher?”

Hot horror mingles with the overwhelming desire to see Chris. The need to exist, somehow, within the orbit of his warmth. It’ll be alright. He won’t talk to Chris, or get too near. Just--he just needs to see him. He’s so tired and in pain and he feels like a broken doll and--he needs. He needs to see Chris.

“This is a bad idea,” Nikolaj mutters, gesturing for Sebastian to go into the bathroom for a shower. Nikolaj tries to get him to eat before they leave, but Sebastian nearly gags at the sight of food. Nikolaj is unhappy and angry, but he lets it slide. Says nothing as he drives him across town to the school. Continues to say nothing as he opens the door and helps Sebastian out of the car. Is still pointedly silent as he trails after him, protective and hostile, up the stairs.

Music. The strings of a guitar from the music room, a popular pop song and the children singing along, discordant but making the effort.

They’re late. Sebastian can tell because the kids all crowd around him at once like they feared he wouldn’t show. Shame burns his cheeks. He’s already disappointed them, even though he tried. He really did try, but--it’s like always. He can’t get anything right, no matter how much he tries.

But they’re not alone--Chris is there, he’s there with a guitar, and his smile is sunny and bright as he looks up from the strings and finds Sebastian, genuinely happy, pleased--for a second before Chris actually _sees_ him.

Then those eyes widen, draining of pleasure and flooding instead with horror. Chris’ mouth falls open, face growing pale, with disgust.

Yes. Sebastian knows this part.

 

Chris is good at smiling. He’s been smiling all afternoon. He’s kept smiling for over ten minutes straight, now. Smiling for the kids.

Sebastian’s late.

Sebastian’s never been late. Not in the nearly two years he’s been turning up to play elf-bright music through the soul of the piano keys. Even hungover, coming down from God knows what, face white and wrist bandaged, he’s shown up five minutes early and draped a scarf casually across the bench beside him.

Today Sebastian’s late. Not early. Not precisely on time, swinging through creaky doors breathless and flushed from the run. Late.

One minute. Two. Five.

Chris touches the strings of his guitar, mechanically spinning Bastille into the air. Someone’d asked. He doesn’t recall who. He doesn’t think he can be an optimist about this. No.

Eight minutes. Ten.

The late-afternoon light’s golden and fading, through the wide windows on the side wall. Like a perfect moment, like a gilded fairytale. Chris runs fingers along guitar-strings, and wishes he were a better prince, wishes Sebastian would accept a prince, wishes he had Sebastian’s damn mobile number, why doesn’t he, why’s he never asked--

Eleven minutes and thirty seconds and the door opens and Sebastian’s there and Chris looks up wordless and caught between anxiety and relief and overwhelming _want_ \--

And then he actually _sees_ Sebastian.

The whole world stops. Might in fact tilt and quiver beneath his feet. He can feel it. Can feel his own shock. Blood draining from his face.

Sebastian’s beautiful because Sebastian’s always beautiful. But today Sebastian’s beautiful in a hopeless bruised uncomprehending sort of way, beautiful like the edge of despair or the glint of broken glass. His eyes are wide and desperate and not quite focused, and his skin is more pale than ever, and he moves as if even breathing hurts, as if being on his feet’s taking every last scrap of will but he can’t do anything else.

He’s wearing black jeans again and a too-thin stylish t-shirt and his slim leather jacket, the one that does nothing about the cold bite in the sunbeams, and his eyes go straight to Chris, as if seeking an anchor, something real.

Chris is staring, and doesn’t have words.

And Sebastian looks away.

And Chris instantly hates himself just a little. Too inarticulate, too clumsy. When it’s important.

He’s very aware that he’s sitting on a plastic chair with his guitar frozen in his hand and a semi-circle of half a dozen kids currently deserting him to hug their piano teacher. One of the oldest boys--James something--glances at Sebastian’s eyes, then at Chris. The expression says it all.

Sebastian’s apologizing to the kids. Not to Chris. No longer looking at Chris. Not quite looking at anyone, in fact, and flinching when hugged too exuberantly. Other injuries, then, concealed under clothing. Bad. They have to be. Sebastian’d not show the pain otherwise.

Chris gets up slowly, still clumsy, mechanical movements he’s barely aware of. Sets down the guitar, hardly noticing. Takes a breath, and says, “Hey, I was just keeping them busy until you got here, figured you wouldn’t be too late, you never are.”

Sebastian’s gaze snaps back to his. Shocked, fundamentally so; too off-balance to hide it. “Chris--I’m sorry, I--”

“Don’t worry about it.” He is worried about it, of course, but other things take priority, like the way Sebastian’s just wavered slightly on his feet, eyes closing. “Come here, okay? Sit down. --Could you give us just a sec, guys?” This last is directed at their adolescent audience, which, miracle of miracles, for the most part stops alternately asking what happened and begging for Miley Cyrus tunes, and instead begins bickering cheerfully about vampire soap opera plots. Chris silently thanks them--they’re worried about Sebastian too, even as James shoos them toward the kitchen--and then reaches out without thinking as Sebastian takes a hesitant step toward the piano and starts to fall over.

Chris puts both hands on his shoulders. Catches him. Sebastian feels too thin beneath his hands, and doesn’t even pull away, only closes his eyes as if too broken to resist. “Fuck,” Chris says, horrified--then winces, because kids, but they’ve stopped paying attention and have probably heard worse--and gets arms around him and eases him onto the piano-bench. It’s the closest. Might offer some comfort. Familiarity. “Look at me. Can you look at me? Focus. Right here. Can you tell me what hurts? How bad?”

Sebastian only shakes his head, whispers something not in English, and waves a hand vaguely toward the piano. “I should--”

“Like hell. You should be in bed. Or someplace with actual doctors who can actually tell me if that’s a--is that a _handprint?_ On your _throat?_ Did someone try to--”

Sebastian starts to lift his own hand that direction, but the gesture trails off, lost between impetus and completion. “I...don’t remember. I don’t think so...he wouldn’t want me dead... _sunt mult mai distractiv în viață_...”

“What?”

“He said he’s more fun alive.”

Chris whips around to stare at the door.

That man. _That_ man. The one who’d followed them. Who’d tried to buy Chris off with too much money. Currently brushing his way past curious bodies and coming efficiently over to peer at Sebastian’s closed eyes. With a sigh. “I told you this was a bad idea, _alteţă…_ ”

Sebastian doesn’t answer, doesn’t even move, but at least he’s breathing. Chris keeps an arm around his shoulders. Glares. He’s been told he has an intimidating glare, in part because of his muscles and in part because he doesn’t choose to deploy it all that often and it damn well matters when he does.

The man arches an eyebrow, with the face of a man unimpressed by but mildly respectful of the effort. “He insisted. He does that.”

“I don’t care who you are,” Chris says, keeping his voice steady with an effort, “I’m not going to let you hurt him. We can take this outside, not in front of the kids, just say the word, but I’m not letting him leave with you. And I’m going to take care of him.”

The man now looks faintly surprised. And rather approving. It’s patronizing. Chris grits his teeth. Waits.

“I do see why he likes you. Rest assured that I am not here to hurt him.” A hand reaches for Sebastian’s cheek, slowly enough to be obvious. A tap of fingers over white skin. “Sebastian. _Alteţă._ Are you awake? Do you know where you are?”

“Chris,” Sebastian whispers, and lets his head tip onto Chris’ shoulder. Chris and the man--That Man, Chris has begun privately calling him--exchange glances, because that’s not an answer and that’s frightening. That Man looks concerned, as if this isn’t usual. The concern more than anything else suggests that he’s telling the truth, that he’s not here to hurt Sebastian, though of course the idea of not hurting has a multiplicity of possible different definitions for different people.

That Man swears, fluid and practiced, in some other language. Romanian, Chris thinks. Not French; he’s got enough bits of French to recognize that if it were, but this sounds different regardless. Sebastian speaks Romanian, though, he remembers. “I do not know what they gave him. He couldn’t tell me. I checked for tracks, for needle-marks, but nothing. He did not know what day it was, when I found him.”

Chris’ gut twists. His heart along with it. Sick and cold. “They.”

“That...you do not need to know. Let me take him home. And I am sorry. For the disruption.”

“You--”

“No.” Faint and fractured, the word astounds both of them. They stare in unison at Sebastian. Who opens both eyes, flinches at the sight of the world, and closes them again. “Please. I promised. I’m always here. Chris--please.”

Chris bites his lip. Doesn’t let his first answer escape. Sebastian’s clearly hurt and can scarcely handle being upright even with assistance and shouldn’t be making any of his own decisions--

Except that’s part of the problem. He’d thought, the night of science-fiction and chocolate and warmth, that Sebastian wasn’t used to wanting anything; wasn’t used to admitting to any wants, not for himself.

Sebastian does want this. Wants to be here. Important.

He says, “Can you sit up?”

One wide aquamarine eye opens, then the other, and they both regard him with hazy irritated affection. “Possibly. Is that a requirement?”

“Yeah. If you can sit up, if you can look at me, you can stay.” They’ve only got about half an hour left in the usual hour, in any case. “But the second we’re done, we’re taking care of you, got it?”

“We…”

“Still not a good idea,” mutters That Man.

“Oh,” Sebastian says vaguely. “Chris...Nikolaj. Nikolaj, say hello.”

“ _Also_ not--”

“You like him. You haven’t threatened him yet. Say hello.”

“Your father gives me orders,” says the now-named Nikolaj. “Not you. Hello, Christopher. For the record, he would have been extremely happy with the chocolate muffin. He also likes blueberries. When he’s _sober._ What did they give you this time? Can you tell us?”

Sebastian shakes his head. Looks down. A retreat.

“Blueberries,” Chris says, “okay, good to know, Sebastian, if you can sit up I’ll make you blueberry pancakes or something sometime, that’s a promise, just tell me you’ll explain what’s going on and why your--bodyguard?--let you get hurt--” He is angry. Feels good. An outlet. Burning like the last dying rays of sun.

Sebastian breathes, “It’s complicated,” in a way that suggests honesty, not deception or deflection; this might only be the exhaustion and the drugs, but it feels genuine. “I can’t--not now. Chris, can we do this, please--”

“You said we,” Chris says, and Sebastian almost smiles. “I did.”

“Sinatra?”

“Oh…” A pause, long enough to be noticeable. “Yes. All right. ‘As Time Goes By’?”

As time goes by, Chris thinks. Moonlight and love songs that are, as Sinatra himself proclaims, never out of date. “Got it.” He’s holding Sebastian in one arm, so can’t reach his guitar; experimentally, he eyes Nikolaj. Who does not audibly sigh. But does hand it over.

“Thanks.”

“I could still decide to dispose of your body in a secret location.”

Probably best not to push. Chris waves at James and the kids in the kitchen, most of whom’re now covered in Oreo crumbs and milk moustaches. “So...I know you’ve been doing actual lessons, he’s been teaching you terrible pop songs--”

“And what were you playing when we--”

“Quiet, Sebastian.” Desert-turquoise eyes look startled at this, and a bit appreciative: Chris isn’t treating him as if he’s fragile. “--but today, um, we’re just going to play for you, okay? Because sometimes music’s about, um, improvisation. With friends.”

Sebastian looks even more startled. So does Nikolaj, now lurking purposefully near the door. Chris has the impression it’s been a while since anyone’s used that word around them.

Their kids, quite a few of whom have probably guessed by now that Sebastian’s coming down from _something,_ nod energetically. Chris makes a mental note to point this out again later; they’re even better behaved for Sebastian than they are for him. Kind of spooky. Kind of wonderful: they like Sebastian, and there’s an unspoken understanding hovering in the air. No one’s going to say anything. Closing ranks. Protection.

He plucks a guitar-string, testing. The note throbs and swells, rich and sweet in the sunset light. Sebastian pulls a smile out of pain like a conjuror’s trick, and sets hands on eager ivory.

Chris sings, when they get to the lyrics. Sebastian doesn’t, but does glance over with an indefinable look in those eyes. Chris gives him a look right back-- _hey, you picked the song_ \--and Sebastian visibly blushes, which distracts him enough that he skips a note or two. Sebastian leans against him, not enough to be terribly obvious, and plays like a soul flung out of heaven, flawless even while collapsing inside, coming apart in the palpable wake of a viciously intoxicating high. He’s amazingly good, unbelievably good; Chris thinks of Mozart, of the cruel glittering heights of genius, of moonlight in winter, and then swings back into the melody at hand. The nineteen-fifties and a sentimental tune. Cocktails on a beach. And lyrics that make his eyebrows go up when he consciously stops to recall them.

They play together incredibly well. Like magic, like enchantment; not perfect, they’ve never done this before and Sebastian’s half-coherent and Chris’s heart’s knotted up with apprehension. But the melody coils outward from fingers and keys and strings, and spills classic harmony into the air. Vivid, memorable, messy, alive.

Sebastian starts improvising, little runs and flairs of notes like spilled treasure. Chris shoots him a glance--oh, it’s on purpose, not Sebastian about to pass out atop the keys; okay, then--and keeps up, mellow happy guitar chords winding around the clear light heart of the piano, weaving in and out and dancing over each other. The kids start applauding. Nikolaj raises eyebrows. Chris, breathless, throws in a musical nod to “Night and Day;” Sebastian picks it up and turns it into something fey and remarkable, tinted with starlight, luminous.

They finish, as the hour ends, with that song, those lyrics, not aloud but unspoken and spun like gold into the fuchsia and topaz of the dwindling day. Only you, beneath the moon, or under the sun. Whether near to me or far.

The last notes dwindle into reverent elated silence. The kids applaud again, more loudly. Sebastian looks up from the piano keys, fingers resting soundless over antique notes, and catches Chris in the act of looking at him. The moment stretches, unbroken.

And then Sebastian moves a hand. It shakes. And those pale eyes change, losing focus, losing the anchor, no longer buoyed by music. Having kept that promise.

Chris puts a hand on his shoulder. Not hard. Breathes, “Stay with me, stay awake, one sec, I’m coming right back,” and gets a nod, though it’s not entirely clear that Sebastian comprehends what he’s agreeing to. Chris breathes out, evenly, and gets up to shoo the collected adolescents out the door, checking to be sure they’ve all had snacks, that they’ve got whatever coats and accessories they’d come in with, that they’ve got places to go for the night. Being responsible. Taking care.

When he turns back to the piano bench, Nikolaj’s looming there and talking urgently at Sebastian, who’s fallen over to lie on his back across the old supportive wood, long legs dangling off the end. Chris’ heart skips behind his breastbone, twisting queerly. It’s getting a workout. Painful.

When he takes the only _mostly_ panicked steps back to them, he realizes that Sebastian’s at least awake, answering in short tired sentences. One leg lifts, bends, foot on the wood; Sebastian shifts position, flinches in pain. Redistributes weight, more to one side, less on his actual backside.

Chris, knowing without consciously knowing, can’t breathe, standing frozen in the big empty room with only a few overhead lights left on.

Nikolaj says something frustrated-sounding in Romanian. Sebastian shakes his head. Nikolaj crosses his arms. Sebastian tips his head back and finds Chris, upside down. “Chris.”

“Still here.”

“Yes...you are…Nikolaj, _i-am spus eu să-i spun,_ I--”

“No, you didn’t,” Nikolaj says, “but you will anyway. Be careful what you do tell him, _alteţă._ ” It’s a straightforward remark. And all the more foreboding for that.

Sebastian sighs, “I know. And stop using the title. _Please._ ”

Title, Chris thinks. “Do I get to take care of you now? Is that another bruise on your arm? I’m seriously going to have to start following you around with wrist braces, aren’t I?”

And Sebastian laughs, fleeting and astonished and strained. “I may be indulging your bizarre obsession with my wrists, have you thought of that…”

“Thanks for that.” He might in fact have an obsession with those wrists, but only insofar as they’re elegant pieces of the enticing whole. He runs through options in his head. Sebastian will say no to a hospital, to any official care, he knows. But Sebastian needs someplace to go. They all need someplace to go.

And Sebastian might be tired enough, walls far enough down, to say yes.

He says, “I have an idea.”


	4. La La Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris’ jacket collar smells of unobtrusive, mild aftershave. Sebastian knows this because he’s wearing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did promise comfort! Enjoy.
> 
> All the chapter titles're of course song titles; this one comes courtesy of The Pixies: _all I'm sayin', pretty baby/ la la love you/ don't mean maybe..._

Chris’ jacket collar smells of unobtrusive, mild aftershave.

Sebastian knows this because he’s wearing it. He hadn’t thought of rejecting it, not really, although it did occur to him that it would be the right thing to do. He hadn’t thought of saying no, because he was wretchedly cold and his teeth were chattering like frost had replaced his bone marrow.

Even if he had thought of it, though, Nikolaj’s look over Chris’ shoulder when Chris had been offering the well-worn bomber jacket would have quelled all protests at once. Nikolaj looked like the next word out of Sebastian’s mouth had better be the start to ‘yes Chris, thank you Chris’, or _else._

So now he’s wearing that jacket, which is unsurprisingly large on him, large enough to cover his freezing hands, large enough for the collar, popped up against the cold, to brush his cheeks, and he’s leaning helplessly against Chris’ side as they wait out in the hallway.

Chris is warm against him even through the leathers of Sebastian’s and his own jacket. His arm is firm and warm on Sebastian’s shoulders, protective. Sebastian’s only half paying attention to what’s going on, shaky and restless, when Chris dips and turns his head to look at him, dark brows creased together, sky-blue eyes filled with concern.

“How are you doing? It’s just a bit longer.”

Sebastian sighs, flicking his eyes to the door to Chris’ apartment, open just a fraction. “We shouldn’t be here,” he mumbles.

“It’ll be alright,” Chris says, one big hand rising to press the back of sturdy knuckles against Sebastian’s forehead, then his cheek. “I think you’re getting a fever.”

Sebastian fights back a shudder, but he must not do it well enough, because Chris makes a small sound of concern and pulls him into a hug, pressing him against his chest and wrapping his arm around Sebastian’s back.

“This is completely unacceptable,” announces Nikolaj at length, sounding brisk and irritated. “I know open squares with more security than this. Where did you grow up, a farm?”

“Boston,” replies Chris, taken aback. “Can we come in now?”

Nikolaj makes an exasperated sound. “Yes, _cățeluș._ You can bring him in.”

Chris moves carefully, keeping Sebastian against himself, and leads him directly to the bedroom, where he helps him sit gently on the edge of the bed. He looks at Nikolaj over his shoulder as he unzips the bomber jacket, brows arched. “What did you just call me?”

“Puppy,” answers Sebastian vaguely, watching Chris’ big hands ease the jacket away from his shoulders.

“Here, I can do that,” says Nikolaj, shrugging off his own long coat and tossing it carelessly on a chair by the window. “I’ve done it before. Find something for him to wear to bed, yes?”

Chris seems to hesitate, reluctant to let Nikolaj touch Sebastian, like he fears it’ll do more damage than good. Sebastian hopes he’ll agree; there’s very little dignity left he hasn’t yet lost in Nikolaj’s eyes, but Chris--Chris hasn’t _seen._ Not really. After a moment, though, he nods, and stands up to cross the room to his closet. Nikolaj crouches down in front of Sebastian and tugs off his boots, gets to work helping him out of his thin leather jacket.

Sebastian lets him, because if he starts trying to help with his shaking hands he’ll just get in the way. Instead he tries to look around and absorb the fact he’s in Chris’ apartment, in his bedroom. The sun is going down and the light is dim and orange. The floor is criss-crossed honey-colored wood. The walls are white, and the window is large and clean. The bed is soft. Sebastian wishes he could pay more attention, but just then Nikolaj snaps his fingers under his nose, and he flinches.

“Can you take off your jeans?” he asks quietly. “Or should I help you?”

Sebastian chokes on the saliva he was trying to swallow. Nikolaj’s hands fly up to cradle his head, surprisingly tender, and he shushes him.

“We can leave you to do it alone,” Chris says firmly, leaving a folded pile of clothes by Sebastian’s side on the bed. The fabric looks like soft, warm cotton. Sebastian fingers it, distracted, for a moment. “We’ll wait outside until you call us in.”

Nikolaj twists to look at him, frowning, but Chris stares right back, intent, lips pursed. Eventually, Nikolaj makes his very distinctive throaty sound of exasperation--he must really, _really_ like Chris--and stands in one graceful, swift motion.

“Getting orders from American _cățeluș_ now, _just_ what I wanted from my life. All my dreams come true.”

There’s one awkward moment when he goes to move and Chris holds his ground, not moving aside. Nikolaj scoffs at him, purposeful and insulting, and brushes by his side, making a show of edging himself to the side so as to not actually touch Chris’ arm, muttering _copil_ at him under his breath as he goes.

Chris sighs, then leans down to press a gentle hand to Sebastian’s shoulder. Warm and grounding.

“I really am going to have to learn Romanian, aren’t I? We’ll be just outside.”

“Called you ‘child’,” mutters Sebastian, dragging the soft cotton closer. Chris snorts and is still shaking his head as he leaves the bedroom, closing the door. Sebastian is so grateful for the privacy that he could cry. He hasn’t been alone in--days. Not alone, and barely ever dressed. He’s choked with gratitude at the chance to undress and change himself, without help. Nikolaj is just doing his job as he sees fit, but Sebastian needs to know he can do this for himself, that he’s not a complete fucking failure at being a human being.

Teeth chattering, he drags on the big sweatshirt first, at first resisting but finally giving into the impulse to pull up the hood. The soft cotton smells of soap and fabric softener, clean and heavenly. He burrows into it for a moment, swaying where he sits, before dragging his gritty eyes open and squinting at the sweatpants in his hands.

Trying to stand is asking too much. His knees won’t hold his weight. He settles for wiggling inelegantly out of his skinny jeans and dragging the soft sweatpants up his legs with a sound of relief that is almost indecent. He flops back on the bed, swallowing a moan at its softness and the fluffiness of the thick bedspread. His skin feels overly sensitive, like every inch of it is bruised and sore, and not just the parts that he knows are black and blue.

In the following silence he’s suddenly aware of voices in the next room, hushed.

“--get the accusations out of the way first, since I like to do things in an orderly manner.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. But he’s hurt, and you’re his bodyguard, and you don’t look like it’s eating at your conscience.” Chris sounds angry, his voice controlled and measured, like he’s investing real effort into keeping it even and low. He probably doesn’t want Sebastian to hear them argue.

Sebastian can’t quite get his head around someone being angry at someone else because of Sebastian--although, come to think of it, more than a few business partners have brought complaints to his father, now that Sebastian considers it. His father is the sort of man who listens, stone-faced, and then delivers answers in that ice-cold monotonous voice that suggests further discussion of the subject at hand will result in bloodstains. Christine must hate bloodstains… Christine is her name, isn’t it? Sebastian frowns at the ceiling. He can’t remember...

Nikolaj’s voice is calm and amused. “I left that in Romania. And if this is not an accusation you need to work on your tone.”

“Stop changing the subject,” Chris hisses.

“Stop asking questions you know I won’t answer, _băiețel,”_ snaps Nikolaj testily.

Sebastian should probably stop this before it escalates. Nikolaj does like Chris, but Nikolaj’s patience is more of an anecdotal joke than an actual trait. He won’t hurt Chris of his own impulse, but if Chris pushes, Nikolaj will almost definitely force him to back down, and that usually means scaring people. Chris doesn’t sound like he’ll back off easily…

He blinks slowly, listening to the rich cadence of Chris’ voice, tries to keep track of the sounds of vowels and consonants in that odd, melodic American accent. American… oh. English. He searches for words in English, groggily trying to sit up.

“I’m good,” he calls after a moment. He manages to sit up halfway, leaning his weight back on his arms. When he tries to raise his head, it feels heavy and difficult to move.

There’s a knock on the door, and Chris peeks in, with a tentativeness that says he’ll be right back out in a flash if Sebastian looks like he needs another minute. It’s insane. This is Chris’ room, his bedroom, his apartment--which actually…

“Nikolaj,” Sebastian says, frowning. He opens his mouth, but English fails him. Frustrated, he shakes his head. _“Nu cred că ar trebui să fim aici.”_

Nikolaj moves Chris aside gently enough, brushing by him on his way to the bed. He crouches down and finds Sebastian’s eyes, his own pale ones clear and intelligent. Nikolaj is intelligent, he started college once, Sebastian knows, so he should be able to trust Nikolaj to make smart decisions. But--Chris…

 _“Vorbește engleză, pentru Christopher,”_ Nikolaj murmurs, pressing the back of his hand to Sebastian’s forehead. “We _shouldn’t_ be here, but we are.”

“You’re more than welcome here,” Chris says, voice soft. Sebastian finds his eyes, blue and earnest. “You’ll be safe here, Sebastian.”

Nikolaj snorts. Sebastian frowns at him. “Be nice.”

“So many orders,” Nikolaj complains, getting to his feet in one quick, graceful motion. Sebastian feels dizzy just watching him, moving about with his usual straightforward conviction, like he knows exactly what he’s doing every second of every day. Sebastian only wishes he could feel that one hour of any month.

“I’ll leave the coddling to you, since you’re so willing,” he says flatly, facing Chris. Sebastian’s eyes skitter along Chris’ broad shoulders, squared and firm like he’s turning himself into a wall Nikolaj might find himself crashing against. “Needless to say, any of this goes wrong, you won’t be seen or heard of again.”

To Sebastian he says, _“Voi fi în camera alăturată,”_ and then he pointedly bumps up against Chris’ shoulder on his way out. Nikolaj, Sebastian thinks fuzzily, is kind of a dick.

Shaking his head, Chris pushes the bedroom door closed until it’s slightly ajar. Sebastian isn’t sure for whose benefit that is, and doesn’t know if he should feel grateful or unsettled by the action. Chris comes to sit on the edge of the bed at his side, close enough that Sebastian can feel his warmth but without touching. Sebastian checks the urge to reach out and grasp his hand, one of those big bony wrists, his forearm. If Chris isn’t touching him, it’s because Chris doesn’t want to. He isn’t going to--to force himself--where he’s not wanted.

“How are you feeling?” Chris asks quietly, eyes and mouth soft with compassion.

Sebastian shivers. “Cold.”

Chris looks concerned. He moves slowly when he reaches for Sebastian’s forehead, like he wants to give Sebastian plenty of time to move away from him if he doesn’t want to be touched. Sebastian falls into that palm all too willingly, bites back a sound when Chris’ other hand cups the back of his head, gentle and careful. Like he thinks Sebastian might shatter. It’s strange, to be treated delicately.

“You’re running pretty hot,” Chris murmurs. “Let’s get you under the covers.”

Sebastian’s hands obey his orders when he tells them to do things, but they don’t feel like his own. He pulls back the covers and lets Chris help him under the sheets, says nothing when Chris brings the covers up to his neck and sits closer, looking down at him with frank concern.

Behind him the room seems to sway, side to side like the rocking of a sailboat. It makes Sebastian’s stomach turn. He feels dizzy and cold and hot all at once. His head hurts. He starts to struggle upwards to sit; Chris makes a noise and seems unsure whether he should stop him.

“Don’t want to lie down,” Sebastian murmurs, swallowing warm saliva.

Chris nods, brows creased with concern, and helps him sit up and back against the headboard.

“I’m not sure I should let you sleep, to be honest,” he says, apologetic and sad. “Maybe we could--oh, you want to watch a movie?”

Sebastian glances at the television set on the wall across the bed and hesitates. “Will you stay?” his mouth asks, without his permission. He should let Chris leave. He starts to apologize, but Chris is smiling at him, still sad, but less so.

“Yeah, I’ll stay right here, if you want.”

He gets up, though, and Sebastian catches himself reaching out for his arm, but too late--Chris is already moving aside, pulling closer a comfortable-looking chair, removing folded clothing from its seat and leaving it somewhat carelessly on the floor by the window. He puts it right up against the bed, close, and sprawls on it with the remote control.

“Any requests?” he asks, arching his thick brows with a small grin. Sebastian shrugs helplessly. Chris smile falters, but he rallies, turning on the tv and putting Netflix on. “I like Disney movies when I’m feeling sick,” he says conversationally.

Sebastian blinks sleepily. “Never watched any.”

Chris looks at him, stunned. “Never? Not one of them?”

“Didn’t have Disney in Romania. Uh, what about--that one? _Brave?”_

Chris pulls a face. “Might hit a bit close to home. But--oh, I know, you’ll like this one.”

It turns out to be a movie called _Mulan._ Chris excuses himself while the movie starts and returns with a bottle of water, still sealed, which he gives to Sebastian with the order to ‘drink all of it, in your own time, slowly’.

The water is cool but the bed is warm and comfortable. Sebastian gets chills, shivers. Swallowing the water is alternately bliss and a chore. He keeps downing small sips, though, tries to pay attention to the movie. It’s nice--the songs are catchy. Maybe he could learn them, teach them to the kids.

He’s feeling marginally better by the time the movie ends, and burrows into the covers with a sound of profound pleasure.

Chris grins at him, leaning closer, resting his elbows on his thighs so their eyes are level.

“Feeling a bit more human?”

Sebastian nods slowly. Chris looks relieved and pleased, but all Sebastian can think of is how he shouldn’t be here, how being here, his sole presence, puts Chris in so much danger. They shouldn’t be seen together. Nobody can associate Chris to Sebastian.

It’s that last thought, and the feeling of profound disloyalty that torments him when he thinks Chris knows nothing about him, is wasting his precious kindness on someone so worthless, that makes him sit up and try to clear his head.

“Take it easy,” says Chris softly, appeasing him with an outstretched hand, always careful not to touch Sebastian. “Why don’t we watch another movie? Or do you want to do something else?”

Sebastian takes a deep breath and turns the water bottle end over end in his hands, slow and measured.

“I want to talk,” he says, tone low, voice rasping.

Chris carefully sets his remote control on the bedside table, nodding. “You don’t have to. But I’m here if you want or need to.”

Sebastian swallows. “I have to. You can’t--you have to know.”

Chris nods slowly, cautious. More like he’s willing to sit there and listen if Sebastian feels like this is something that needs to be said than like he’s curious. He’s so undemanding, like he expects nothing from Sebastian but whatever Sebastian wants to give him, and it’s--confusing, yes, certainly, but so nice, too, so refreshing. To be with someone who doesn’t want anything from him.

Now, though, Sebastian is faced with a new problem: where to start? How to tell Chris enough for him to understand, without revealing too much that might endanger him or Sebastian’s father?

“My parents,” he starts, thinking. Might as well start at the beginning. “Got married very young. Very young in a very poor Romania, wracked by Communism. Mama is a concert pianist, but papa--he plays the violin, but not well enough to get work. He had to… find other ways. To keep us fed.”

He eyes Chris doubtfully, wondering if his hints are clear enough. Chris’ brow is furrowed, like he’s paying attention, trying to follow, but he doesn’t look concerned yet, so--probably not clear enough.

“He, how do you say--he got tangled up with… bad people. Bad people in Romania are very bad. As bad as they are in Russia.”

Chris’ brow clears at once, eyebrows flying. He sits up straight, blinking.

“Mama didn’t like it. We were always in danger. I got kidnapped three times, so papa put bodyguards on me and mama. By the time I was eight, mama had had enough, and got a divorce. Took me to Austria, hoping to keep me safe. She met her new husband there, an American, and he brought us here. I was twelve. Dad was fine with us in Austria, but America was too far, so… he followed us.”

Sebastian shrugs. “Things… went as things go. I’m my father’s son. I, um. I, I guess I--entertain. Business partners.”

He grimaces at the term, unhelpful and erroneous.

“Nikolaj is meant to protect me from anyone on the… outside. Of the circle. But these types of things,” he pauses and gestures vaguely at his arms, at his throat where the sweatshirt doesn’t cover the bruise there, hand-shaped. “These are things that I do. It’s all part of…” he trails off, makes a defeated gesture with his hands.

He inhales, keeps the air in his lungs for a long moment, twisting the bottle cap in his fingers. He can’t look at Chris; if Chris is freaking out, which he by all rights should, Sebastian won’t know how to deal with it, how to help him calm down. He certainly can’t fucking justify his putting Chris in danger by agreeing to come to his apartment--although at least part of the blame of that can go firmly on Nikolaj, what the fuck was he thinking…

Motion just on the corner of his eye attracts his attention, and he looks up. Chris, impossibly, looks calm. He’s frowning, and he’s a little pale, but his hands are steady and his eyes clear and intent.

“Is that why you keep pulling away?” he asks softly, like this is a conversation he very much wants to keep between them, without Nikolaj overhearing anything. “That first night you disappeared, and then the last couple of weeks when you wouldn’t even look at me.”

Sebastian spreads his hands. “You see it has to be that way, yes?”

“No,” says Chris firmly.

Sebastian stares at him, wondering how he can make any of this more explicit without actually putting Chris in a precarious position.

Chris looks calm still, but his eyes are hard as steel and his mouth is pursed with what looks like anger, so Sebastian tries to brace himself for what is probably going to be a very harsh list of the things he’s not supposed to be doing, being what and who he is. He shouldn’t be here in this apartment, he shouldn’t--shouldn’t really go to the school, should he, and endanger all those kids…

The idea, though, the idea that Chris is about to tell him to vanish the fuck out of their lives and leave them alone, is so distressing that Sebastian doesn’t think he can stand to hear it. He wants to stop Chris, but he doesn’t really have anything to say to counter, or any ground on which to stand to argue. Something must show on his face, because Chris leans closer, brows smoothing into a blend of concern and compassion.

He’s got so _much_ of that, Chris.

“That night on the roof,” Chris says, eyes falling down to Sebastian’s wrist. “Someone did that to you? Someone… in the circle?”

Sebastian checks the impulse to pull the sleeves of Chris’ sweatshirt down as far as his knuckles.

“It’s not always…they don’t always hurt me.”

Chris’ jaw twitches. “But it happens often.”

Sebastian shrugs. Then he thinks that Chris is actually asking questions that have answers he needs to know, or has a right to know, considering what he’s invited into his own apartment, and swallows.

“Yeah,” he admits, staring at the water bottle in his hands. “More often than not. But it’s not usually as...bad as it was this time. There aren’t normally drugs,” he’s hit suddenly by dread that Chris will think he’s an addict, and he snaps his eyes up, desperate, to find Chris’. “I don’t--I don’t do drugs, I swear. I don’t like them. I don’t do them by myself.”

Chris takes in a long, shuddering breath, closing his eyes as he retains it in his chest. Sebastian realizes Chris is striving for composure, making an effort to keep his anger in check.

“But they make you, sometimes?” he asks, voice so forcefully steady it’s almost a monotone.

Sebastian looks at him helplessly. “I’m not supposed to let it happen. They’re not supposed to actually hurt me or make me do anything I don’t want to. I have a knife, and Nikolaj is ready to get me out anytime, and--I did stop them. At, at first.”

Chris is nodding slowly, like he’s taking it all in, absorbing all of this information. Sebastian understand that it’s a lot to lay on a person, any person, no matter how kind-hearted and decent.

“And your father?” Chris asks after a long moment. “He’s… okay with all of this? He knows how far it goes?”

Sebastian makes a vague sound in the back of his throat, bitter and rasping. “He’s seen more than you, and worse, and he’s never stopped it. Never tried to get me to do anything else either. He doesn’t think I’m very smart. He knows I’m pretty enough, though, I suppose.”

Chris’ eyes are sad and soft. “Maybe he doesn’t want you to be tangled up any deeper in it.”

Sebastian shakes his head slightly. Chris is trying to find the good side of Sebastian’s father, but he doesn’t know him like Sebastian does.

“And your mom?” Chris asks, and Sebastian can tell by his tentative, careful tone that Chris knows this is a delicate question, painful and dangerous. Sebastian’s throat closes on his answer, and he swallows thickly, once, twice. Shakes his head.

“Alright,” says Chris kindly, resting his hand on Sebastian’s forearm. “It’s okay, really.”

“But you see,” Sebastian manages, voice shredded. “Why I have to go away.”

“No,” answers Chris, back to stubborn, and Sebastian stares at him, wide-eyed. “Sebastian, thank you for telling me all of this. I know it was hard and I think it must be risky. Thank you for telling me. You didn’t have to, and you did. So thank you. Do you _want_ to stop talking to me, or stop going to the school? Tell me what _you_ want, not what you think is right or--what you think _I_ want to hear.”

That last warning is delivered just a bit too sharply, a lick of anger along the Boston accent.

He swallows. “No,” he whispers, wracked by guilt.

“I don’t want you to do either of those things, either. Don’t make that choice for me, please; don’t decide what’s best for me without telling me about it. Not now that you gave me the tools to know what I’m choosing. You told me what you thought I needed to know. _Thank you._ But now you did your part. I’m a grown man, and I know what you’re tangled in, and I can make my decisions, okay?”

Sebastian can’t speak. He nods.

“None of which means that I’m--okay with what you’re doing,” Chris warns. “It doesn’t make you happy and it gets you hurt and you’re not doing it of your own choice, not really. Or at least not completely. And,” he stops, hesitates like he’s wondering if he’s about to step over a line. He glances quickly to the door, ajar, to the living room, and then in an unexpected careful motion moves from the chair to the edge of the bed.

His back is to the door, and Sebastian realizes with a jolt that Chris is very deliberately putting himself in a position in which he’s covering Sebastian from Nikolaj.

“And you have to know,” he says, tone low and gentle, “that you can get out, Sebastian. No matter whose son you are, your life is your own. And I don’t think you’re happy. I don’t think you like getting hurt.”

Sebastian tries to swallow around the block in his throat, which aches fiercely. His eyes burn. Chris takes one of his hands, gentle and warm, and Sebastian has to grit his teeth so hard they hurt, or else he’ll start telling Chris all about how much this is _not_ his life.

“You don’t have to make any decisions now,” Chris says soothingly. “I’m only saying this because I don’t know if anyone has, before. We don’t have to keep talking about this either if it upsets you. Thank you, again, for telling me. And please don’t try to keep a distance from me again on my account; I like you a lot, I like having you around, I like talking to you. I don’t want you to take that choice out of my hands again, please.”

“I was trying to,”Sebastian starts, and his voice breaks.

“I know where you were coming from,” Chris nods. “But all the same, it’s not okay for you to make decisions in my name. I’m not angry,” he rushes to say when Sebastian makes a wounded noise. “I’m not angry at you at all. But promise me you won’t?”

Sebastian nods slowly. He feels exhausted, wrung dry. Chris smiles.

“Thanks,” he says, genuinely relieved. “Drink some more water. And--you up for another movie? Or we could--”

A knock on the door. Chris twists around, surprised. Nikolaj gives him only a cursory glance, noting his position, before turning to Sebastian.

“Augusto is downstairs,” he says, tugging on his gloves. “He’s taking my spot for a couple hours. I’m going to the hotel room to see what I can find. Your father’s tracking down some of the others that were there as well. Maybe one of them was given the same you were.”

Sebastian thinks of the shivering naked girl curled up in the couch in the main room.

“I’m feeling better,” he says quietly.

“I still want to know. I don’t want this to happen again. Call Augusto if you need anything,” he says firmly, coming closer and reaching over Chris’ shoulder casually to give Sebastian his phone.

He pauses, sighs. “I’ll stop by your mother’s apartment. Let her know you’re feeling under the weather.”

Sebastian nods, so grateful words fail him. Nikolaj turns to Chris.

“It’s been twenty-four hours since I got him out of there. Whatever this is, it’s just lingering side-effects. It should be fine for him to sleep it off. Anything happens, my number is on his phone, and there are three extra men ready to help outside.”

Chris nods wordlessly.

“I’m keeping your spare key. Don’t bother walking me out.”

With one last glance at Sebastian to gauge his condition, Nikolaj leaves the apartment. In the following silence, Chris gets up and gets Sebastian another bottle of water, plus one for himself, both cold from the fridge.

“Want to try to get some sleep?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian huddles down on the bed on his side, dragging the covers up to his face, and curls up. Chris settles back in the chair right next to him, smiling, and picks up a book from the bedside table. Chris’ sheets smell of laundry detergent and are unbelievably soft and warm. Sebastian feels like he’s floating in a nest of feathers.

He presses his face to the pillow and closes his tired eyes.

 

Sebastian’s asleep within five minutes. Asleep in Chris’s bed. Wounded and weary and feverish and brave, the bravest person Chris’s ever known, he’s coming to realize. It’s a slow realization, entwined inextricably with all the other information. But it’s true, the way that thread spun into gold is true, buried amid fairytale horror, men gruesomely split in half and children sacrificed.

Children. The anger’s low and burning. Smoldering coals. Sebastian was a child, at the beginning, and never asked for this. Never asked to be a sacrifice.

Sitting in his squashable secondhand chair, one foot propped on the side of the bed, he thinks again, _children,_ and then, _kidnappings._ And then proceeds to have what under the circumstances is a totally justifiable momentary freak-out, albeit silently so as not to startle exhausted blue eyes awake.

Oh God. Oh God. He’s got a--what, an Eastern European mob boss’s son in his apartment, in his bed, wearing his _clothes._ He’s got members of that Eastern European mob staking out his living room. He’s harboring a boy who, from what Sebastian has and hasn’t said, is pretty fucking high in demand as an evening’s entertainment, and someone’s going to notice him missing, and Sebastian’d talked about _kidnapping_ attempts, had mentioned carrying a _knife,_ and what if someone takes exception to his presence here and decides to kidnap them both, what if they--whoever _they_ are--know things about Chris and--oh God, he has to call his mother, his siblings, what if his body ends up in a back alley someplace because these people might decide that’s a completely reasonable response if Sebastian’s _not_ okay, what will his mother do if--

Oddly, it’s that thought that snaps him out of the panic. He still kind of wants to curl up in the chair and whimper, but that’s a perfectly rational reaction for any sane person who’s just been informed that if his houseguest doesn’t awaken hale and hearty he’ll never be seen or heard from again.

But his mother would’ve opened the door. Would’ve invited them in. He knows she’d be making Sebastian hot cocoa and asking no questions. He knows it the same way he knows he could never not volunteer at the school, the way he can’t walk past someone needing a hand and not offer his. He’s here, and he can, and he cares.

He looks at Sebastian, huddled under nest-like layers of blankets.

He cares. More than he should. That’s always been his problem; knowing that does nothing to change it.

Here and now, helplessly, he’s caring about Sebastian. And the thing is, this time feels different. Because Sebastian cares too. Sebastian, unwillingly, fighting tooth and nail, does care. Has done everything he can think of, everything that’s seemed to make sense given the parameters of his life, to keep Chris safe.

That’s...new.

Chris is used to shouldering responsibilities. He’s got broad shoulders. He can take it. But Sebastian’s been trying--brokenly, clumsily, sincerely--to do the same for him.

He watches Sebastian shift in sleep, eyebrows tugging together as if even in dreams motion’s painful.

The panic’s not gone, but it’s not sustainable at that level, either. Mellowing into deeper fiercer fires. Whatever else is true, it’s also true that Chris, given the choice, knowing everything he knows now, would say the same again: I’ve got an idea, come over, come home with me.

It’s not simple--it’s pretty damn far from simple--but it is clear. That makes it easy.

The light’s on, on the bedside table. Quiet topaz support, lying like an extra blanket over the forlorn courageous ball under Chris’s sheets.

He’s all at once absurdly wildly glad he’d done laundry the day before, and then he puts a hand over his mouth to stifle what’s likely somewhat hysterical laughter, and then somehow he finds himself thinking that maybe magically everything might be okay.

Sebastian’s breathing. Asleep, not unconscious. Healing. Yes. They’ll be okay.

Chris lets him sleep, and keeps watch. Not another bodyguard; Sebastian doesn’t need that. A knight, maybe. On vigil. Reverent.

The city lights twinkle encouragement beyond the window. New York. Dreams and skyscraper hope. New lives.

He’s idly re-reading his own tattered paperback copy of _Fantastic Voyage,_ not even bothering to pretend it’s not because Sebastian’d picked it out at the Atheneum, when there’s a tap at the door.

This replacement bodyguard’s bulkier and even less inclined to smile than Nikolaj, which is saying a whole lot of somethings. He doesn’t speak, glancing at the bed. Only holds out a hand. There’s a sleek black cellphone being dwarfed by muscles in it.

Chris picks it up, cautiously. “Hello?”

“Christopher.” Ah. Speaking of Nikolaj. Sebastian’s head bodyguard sounds out of breath. Chris does not want to think about why. “I have been learning things. You--excuse me, one moment.”

Chris waits. There’re sounds. Chris stares at page thirty-two of the book, open in front of him. Tries to be distracted by words.

The head bodyguard comes back, brisk and businesslike. “I should be finished in perhaps forty minutes. How is he?”

“Sleeping.” He glances over to confirm, even though he knows that’s still true; he’d’ve been alert to any noise or tiny motion from the blanket-heap. He can’t help looking. Sebastian’s hair’s visible, peeking coyly out from the top layer of dark blue.

“Good. He should be…” Picking words, in another language, over the phone. Chris wonders whether Sebastian knows how deeply his protective detail cares. He guesses not. He guesses Sebastian wouldn’t believe it if told.

“...all right,” Nikolaj finishes. “I said I have learned things. Some of which you need not know. However. They gave him, at the very least, ecstasy--of a special variety one of them could only describe as ‘the good stuff’--and cocaine, and alcohol.” Ice all through that voice. Vicious daggers. “Nothing more exotic. I am certain by now. But Sebastian...he, how do you say...he has bad reactions. Crashes. With ecstasy certainly. Cocaine, everyone has bad reactions after. But all of it together…”

Chris swallows. Hard. He’d thought Sebastian seemed better. “What should I do?”

“Nothing for the moment. He should be through the worst. Let him sleep. Keep him warm. If he forgets where he is, if he feels unsafe or afraid, talk to him.” There’s another crowded pause. Then a few angry words in Romanian, and then, “He may not want to be...touched. They were rough with him. More so than usual. Understand?”

Chris, through a throat rapidly closing up with grief and anger, gets out the yes. That’s an unnecessary warning; he’d seen the gratitude in blue eyes when they’d left Sebastian alone to slip out of and into clothing.

But Sebastian’s wanted to be touched. Has leaned against him, has held his hand. He clings to that. That’s true.

“I’ll be there soon,” Nikolaj says as someone groans pathetically in the background, and hangs up. Chris breathes out, does not let his hands shake, and sits back down, heavily, in his chair.

And then there’s a hushed little sound from the bed.

And Chris snaps his gaze that direction just in time to see Sebastian try to sit up, gasp in pain, and then catch himself on an elbow, eyes huge and uncomprehending, sapphires drowned in obsidian shock.

“Hey--” Chris dives that direction. Remembers last-second that _touching_ might equal _bad,_ and consequently ends up ungracefully plopped on the floor, more or less on his knees, hands out and palms up and empty. “Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay, you’re safe, I swear you’re safe, it’s me, it’s Chris, okay?”

Sebastian’s frantic gaze flickers around the room, door to bathroom door to window: checking for exits, Chris understands, and his heart cries to itself at the thought. “You’re fine,” he tries, hands still held out and hopefully unthreatening. “You remember me, right? Chris? From the school? Um, Sinatra? Wrist obsessions? I promised to make you pancakes sometime?”

Sebastian hesitates. Bruised-sapphire eyes come back and land on Chris’ face. The night hangs like unfallen tears around them.

“Right,” Chris says encouragingly, “you know me, I know you, you like Asimov and chocolate and sometimes ordering me around.”

“...chocolate,” Sebastian whispers, slow but it’s a whisper with recognition in its bones. “Everyone who knows me knows that, it’s hardly a secret...Chris.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m in your bed.”

“Yeah?”

“I...fell asleep. In your bed.”

“Still yeah.”

Sebastian sits up and pulls legs up to his chest and wraps arms around them. His toes stay buried under the folds of the sheets. “I should...I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why,” Chris says, “you’ve got somewhere else to go?” and catches the glimpse of humor, evanescent and unrealized, before it submerges itself again.

“You’re in danger--”

“Yeah.” Voice light, careful, not dismissive but accepting. “Your baby Hulks out there kinda tell me so. So you, um, you always have lots of company, when you come by the school?”

Sebastian stares at him. Chris wishes he knew what those eyes might be seeing, whether they’re resting on his with hope or apprehension.

“They aren’t...this isn’t usual. Only one.”

Only one at a time. Okay. So Sebastian’s usual includes one bodyguard and an unfair amount of bodily harm. “You know there’s, like, four Abominable Romanian Snowmen out there in my living room, right?”

This earns a blink. Two. “Why?”

“You tell me.” The answer’s that they all adore Sebastian. Ferociously, violently, devotedly so. Even Chris can see as much. Sebastian evidently cannot.

“I don’t know,” Sebastian whispers, as Chris belatedly figures out that his own comment might’ve been taken as a question, “I don’t know--how did I get here, I shouldn’t-- _i nu ar trebui să fie aici--”_

“English.” Chris keeps his voice calm. Purposefully so. “I only speak English. And very bad French. Okay?” That might be too strict; Sebastian seems disoriented. “Hey. You do remember me, right? Chris? From the school? You’re in my bed?”

Blue eyes scowl at him. Impatient affection. Chris will take that; better than terror or bewilderment. “I know who you are. I don’t know why I’m still here. Wearing your _clothes.”_

“They’re warmer than yours. How’re you feeling?” He’s noticed every wince, at every miniscule change in position. His bed’s not the world’s softest, but it’s not that hard, either. And from what he’s been told about...the other things...that Sebastian’s been through, he’s impressed that sitting up’s possible at all. “Want ibuprofen? More water?”

“More drugs...we’d probably better not.” Sebastian sighs. Drops his face into his hands. And then looks up, with what’s far and away the most open and unguarded expression Chris’s seen him wear. Even that elegantly-tinted voice sounds wryly amused. “I thought that. About being warm. About your jacket. Why are you on the floor?”

“Um…it’s a nice floor?”

“It’s made of wood, and therefore hard. Were you trying to give me space?”

“Don’t insult my floor,” Chris says, getting up from it, delivering a surreptitious pat to the boards along the way, “and you can borrow the jacket any time. Water? Might help?”

“I suppose,” Sebastian concedes, waving a hand. “Particularly if it proves to have magical healing properties. Unicorns and lake-fairies. Go.”

“Unicorns?”

“I like mythology. In any case you can’t expect me to be coherent at the moment. I shouldn’t even be in your bed.”

“So you’ve said. You keep not getting up. I think I’m out of unicorns in the fridge, but I’ll see what I can do. The head of your miniature League of Shadows should be back in a few minutes. He’s been working out some frustrations, I think.”

Sebastian puts the arms back around pulled-up knees. Smaller, with unhappy eyes, pale and young. Chris wants very badly to come back to the bed and hold him forever. “He’s angry with me.”

“He’s angry that you got hurt. And that you came home with me.” At which he slams his mouth shut, because what the hell did he just say. Words. No intervention from his brain. Only his heart.

Mountain-pool eyes seem interested, though, not instantly rejecting the intimate phrasing. Lake-fairies, Chris thinks. Skittish ones, all surface-spines and darting motions, but curious about the human world above. “Home. With you. And the Asimov. Which appears to be following us around. Or I’m hallucinating all of this, and you’re only in my head. Though I doubt I’d come up with purple sweatpants. Why do you own purple sweatpants?”

Chris grins. Sebastian hasn’t said no about the first word. The important one. “Would you believe I bought them just for you? No? Okay, then, they were on sale. They look good on you.”

All the lake-fairies fluff up their spines in indignation. And with a tinge, the faintest fleeting shade possible, of gratitude. “Go and find water before I am forced to throw your own pillows at you.”

Chris laughs. Goes. At the door, pauses to say, “They still look good on you,” and then ducks.

Sebastian’s got decent aim, even weary and in pain. The pillow bounces off his shoulder; he tosses it back, salutes mostly just to be annoying, and heads out to his kitchen.

Four man-mountain heads lift in unison around his living room. Chris waves, says cheerily, “We’re fine, just getting water, and food, do you want anything?” and secretly enjoys the identical nonplussed expressions.

Out in his kitchen, feet soundless on the floor, he puts both hands on the counter, bends over, and breathes for a second. Okay. They’re okay, Sebastian’s fine--bruised visibly and not, but doing _fine,_ giving him orders and teasing him and maybe possibly even letting him see glimpses of the laughter behind the brittle cynicism--and yeah, bodyguards in his apartment and kind of a lot of danger lurking around the periphery, but still: okay. Somewhere in the snarled skein of the night and the school and the revelations and the echo of Sinatra tunes, they’ve taken a step forward. Closer together.

He knows Sebastian heard him, about this life and choices and getting out. He knows that he’ll likely have to say it more than once, that other people will have to say it too. He knows it’s far easier for him to proclaim that Sebastian has options than it is for Sebastian to see them from the inside.

Sebastian threw a pillow at him. Talked about being warm under Chris’ jacket.

When he opens his fridge, he ends up smiling at the line of plastic water-bottles. They beam encouragingly back, under the light.

After some consideration, he also finds his bread. And peanut butter. And honey. And bananas. He’s not a great cook, as his mother and brother have both gleefully pointed out on multiple occasions, but he can handle sandwiches. More or less. On a good day.

Several eventful minutes and only minor eruptions of peanut butter later, he ventures back to the bedroom. He knocks first, and then offers, “It’s me,” to be safe. Sebastian’s voice calls back, “Did you have to go and hunt down the unicorn, then?” which is definitely promising, so he nudges the door open with a foot.

Sebastian’s back under the covers, shivering a little; but his eyes’re clear when he looks up. “I wasn’t serious about you hunting and gathering. Though evidently you have been. I’m not sure I’m hungry…”

“Try,” Chris suggests, bringing the plate over. “It’s fine if you’re not, but I don’t know when you last had food, and it might help. Are you cold?”

“N--yes. Somewhat. Oh--” The _oh_ is because Chris has found an extra hoodie, an old one with a hole in the right sleeve, and plopped it on his shoulders. “...thank you. Chris?”

“If you’re opposed to peanut butter, I might have cheese. Somewhere. No promises.”

“No...I like peanut butter...I think. It’s been years. I was going to say, you can sit with me. If you’d rather not be on the floor.”

This time Chris is the one who says, “Oh,” probably grinning too widely, and then comes around to the other side of the bed and hops up and settles down in the welcoming spot. He’s careful about not touching, not without invitation, and making all the motions obvious and unthreatening; Sebastian smiles a little, and leans his direction. Their shoulders bump. “Peanut butter and honey...and...banana?”

“Worked for Elvis. Come on, you’ve never tried it?”

“I didn’t know what a banana looked like--outside of descriptions in books--until I was twelve. This is a thing? Fruit in sandwiches? Is it like pineapple on pizza?”

Chris resolutely does not think about tiny Sebastian, made of huge eyes and long legs and curiosity, devouring descriptions of faraway lands. He does glance at his sandwich, briefly, and contemplate his life and the way he’s taken for granted the presence of bananas in it.

He also tries, and fails utterly, to not picture present-day Sebastian eating a banana. Those lips, wrapped around pale succulent curved flesh. Damn.

Sebastian regards the plate with some misgiving. “I should warn you that the last time Nikolaj--my personal League of Shadows, I think you said? I like that--attempted to feed me I threw up most of it five minutes later. Which may only be a reflection of his skill involving eggs. But if this doesn’t work, it isn’t you.”

“...oh. Um. How are you feeling? I mean…”

“Better.” Sebastian either wins or loses the staring contest with the closest half-sandwich, and picks it up. Chris, yet again, is struck by the thought that he’s getting to see the real person behind all the armor, the person who’d peeked out and smiled so brilliantly at old books and classic movies before tucking the smile away. He’s very sure that very few people’ve ever met this Sebastian. He’s honored. And amazed.

“I can’t remember a lot,” Sebastian says, to the sandwich. “There was a piano. Before the worst of it. Before--that helped. This time.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Chris says, equally softly, “if you don’t want to. I’m here, and I’ll listen, anything you want to say, but it’s up to you.”

“My choice. You do keep saying that.” Finally, a bite, if a small one. And then eyebrows sweep upward in surprise. “Not bad.”

“Told you. Elvis says so.”

“A veritable font of wisdom.” Sebastian licks honey off a pensive fingertip. Chris, halfway through a sip of water, narrowly avoids choking on it. Not the time for those thoughts, not in any conceivable way, and he’s nevertheless helpless to resist. “I can’t tell you much. Even if I want to. I can’t give you names. I’ve told you too much, I think, already...and most of it’s extremely blurry. Nikolaj probably knows more than I do, at this point. I believe I’ve just got honey on your purple sweatpants. Apologies. _Îmi pare rău._ Sorry.”

“They’ve seen worse. Don’t worry about it.” Chris finishes off his own sandwich. The room’s warm and content around them, city lights glinting in the distance, the turned-off television presiding benevolently over the scene, and the taste of peanuts and sweetness on his tongue. “Was that actually a translation? So you’re teaching me Romanian, right, so I know what insults your Doom Patrol’s coming up with for me?”

Sebastian sets down the sandwich.

“Oh, sorry,” Chris says, “did you like League of Shadows better?” and gets a half-smile, slightly frayed around the edges. “Both, I think...give me a minute…”

“Oh. Um. Bathroom’s over there.” He waves. “I promise I won’t be offended. You did warn me.” Concerned, yes. But he doesn’t say that aloud.

“I’m not going to vomit in front of you.” That faded-silk lilt sounds scandalized by the suggestion of showing weakness. “I’m fine.”

“Of course you are. You know I’ve got a brother _and_ two sisters, and their diabolical senses of humor, right? There is literally nothing you could do to my bathroom that I haven’t seen.”

Sebastian opens both eyes at that, cat-like and skeptical and pale. The sleeves of the final hoodie-layer are draped over his shoulders, and he looks about fifteen years old, curled up in Chris’ bed. His eyes’re older. By centuries. “That is hardly reassuring. I am all right. I’m just...making sure.”

“Take your time,” Chris says, and, greatly daring, puts an arm around him for extra heat. Sebastian lets out a wordless little sound of appreciation and doesn’t pull away. Chris, after a few thunderous astounded heartbeats, starts humming very quietly. Sebastian blinks. Then laughs. “‘Jailhouse Rock’?”

“I knew you knew Elvis,” Chris says triumphantly, and starts over from the beginning. And they’re sitting on the bed, singing ridiculous fifties music about the cutest jailbirds in the joint, honey at the corner of Sebastian’s mouth and on Chris’ sheets, when Nikolaj opens the door.

It’s Sebastian he looks at first, but Chris he looks at more intently, as if searching for rational explanation. Chris looks right back, and Nikolaj unbends enough to offer a miniscule nod, which might even be approval. Sebastian, under Chris’ arm, has gone stiffer. Tension. Retreat.

“Sebastian,” Nikolaj says, voice almost but not quite inflectionless, “we need to go. There are at least twelve ways someone could poison you here--”

“Hey, come on, I’m not that bad at sandwiches,” Chris interjects, and both sets of eyes flick to him, then away.

“--and someone attempted to follow me when I left. You will be safer at one of our locations.”

Attempted, Chris thinks. He’s entirely sure the attempt ended badly. Probably with blood.

Sebastian bites his lip. Says something swift and liquid in Romanian. Nikolaj shakes his head. Sebastian’s fingers curl into the sleeves of the sweatshirt, taut and withdrawn. Chris ventures cautiously, “Can I help?” and gets a headshake. “The others...there were others, there...he doesn’t know what happened to them all. They were gone. They didn’t have...people coming for them. Not as important as me.” The knife-edge of bitterness is back, coiled under the melody; Chris, not knowing what else to do, keeps the arm around his shoulders. Offers, after a second, “You tried, though, he did look for them,” and Sebastian nods but doesn’t look up.

Nikolaj says something else, more of a question, or it has that intonation; coming from the person who’d been reminding Sebastian to use English when they’d arrived, that’s a message. There are parts of this story that Chris isn’t allowed to know. There are secrets.

But Sebastian answers this one in English, after a glance at Chris. “Better. I can walk. I can probably even manage stairs. Now?”

“Now would be good,” Nikolaj agrees. “And you can sleep someplace that a two-year-old couldn’t break into. Would you prefer to get dressed, or are you wearing all of Christopher’s clothes home?”

Sebastian, at this reminder, sits up more. On his own. Out from under Chris’ arm. Defensive gathering of shields. Chris jumps in before they’re all the way up to say, “You’re not wearing _all_ my clothes, I’ve got more, I own clothes. I even own more than one set of clothes.” Sebastian’s very nearly startled into a smile; the expression misses it by a hairsbreadth, warring with habitual flippant carelessness.

“In that case…” The top few layers, the most tattered hoodie, get shrugged off onto the bed; Chris sighs and gets up, back purposefully turned, as Nikolaj hands over Sebastian’s jeans and boots. He does have a purpose, though, and he comes back with his old bomber jacket. The one Sebastian’d called warm.

“Here.”

Winter-sea eyes pause--Chris catches a glimpse of silver gliding into the left boot; Sebastian does carry a knife, then, that’s not a lie, and it’s a telling reminder--and regard him with startlement. “I can’t--”

“Me, clothes, more than one set. And you didn’t show up with one. Yours doesn’t even count.”

“Mine was a gift...a designer...he was hoping to impress us, I believe…” Sebastian looks from the jacket to Chris’ expression to Nikolaj’s expression, and then back at the jacket. And slides arms into the sleeves, standing up.

It’s too big on him. There’re anxious bodyguards chattering at each other in the background, and alertness in the air, and Sebastian’s a bit shaky on his feet but standing upright and not quite as pale and far, far more awake and alive than when they’d arrived. His hair’s a disaster from sleep, and he still moves as if every muscle aches, but some of the dancer’s grace is returning, too. And he’s beautiful.

“Thank you,” Nikolaj says to Chris, rather pointedly. It’s a good-bye. Chris supposes that they’re treading on the last vestiges of the bodyguard’s patience. He understands.

He says, “Drink more water. Sleep. Stay warm. Call me or something. Just...let me know, okay? How you’re doing? I mean, otherwise I won’t see you for a week, and…” And I can’t not see you. And I need to know you’re okay. And I think you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met, everything you try to do, for me, for the school, for your family. And I think I might be in love with you, you in my bed, licking honey from your fingers, watching Disney movies with me.

“...and I just, y’know. Want to make sure my jacket’s not missing me.”

Sebastian, in the middle of a tempest of black-clad bodyguards, smiles. Faint but real. Honest. “I don’t have your number.”

“I do,” Nikolaj volunteers.

“Why am I not surprised,” Chris asks his ceiling. “Not even a tiny bit. Not one atom.”

Sebastian’s eyes dance, behind the artificial screen of wary disinterest. “He may also know your Social Security number and your high-school grade-point average. And...yes. I don’t know when. It might depend on--but I will. Yes.”

“Average student,” Nikolaj says. “Unremarkable either way. _Alteță--_ ”

“I asked you to stop that,” Sebastian says vaguely, still looking at Chris.

“You did.” Nikolaj actually makes an expression, though it’s not one Chris can read. Disapproval? Approval, maybe? “I did not think you meant it.”

“I might.” Sebastian starts to shrug, winces, stops. “Just--not here. Anywhere else. But not here.”

One of the other bodyguards says something impatient-sounding. There’s a general inclination toward getting Sebastian out the door. Someplace more security-approved. Protected.

“Go,” Chris says, “before they have a collective heart attack.” Sebastian puts his hands in the pockets of Chris’ jacket, puts his head on one side, offers up that not-quite-smile again. “Warm. _Caldă._ ”

Chris grins. Nikolaj mutters, under his breath, “ _such_ a bad idea,” and not-so-gently propels Sebastian, bundled in Chris’ jacket, out the door.

And then they’re gone.

Out of his apartment. Into the city night.

Even the walls seem to take a breath and let it out, quivering with release, with the draining away of the long night’s adrenaline. The quiet falls in, and surrounds him. Himself, and his messy place, and no assorted weaponry or exotic accents present.

The breath’s a long-held one. An exhale.

He knows, of course, that the relief’s false to a certain extent. He’s known since hearing Sebastian’s stumbling half-drugged admissions; even before that, when he’d first offered the sanctuary, he’d known. He’s let that life in. He’s taken a stand at Sebastian’s side. Even if he walks away now, his name and his loyalty are on display for anyone interested to see.

He looks back at his bedroom. At rumpled sheets, the hoodie tossed across the bed, the nibbled half-sandwich sitting happily on its plate, the emptied bottles of water. They know they’ve helped. They know they’ve been accepted.

As he picks up the plate to take back to the kitchen, he finds himself whistling “Jailhouse Rock”.


	5. In The Meantime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris and Sebastian talk about fairy-tales, and come to someone's rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Minor warnings** for off-screen drug use by a minor, and for reference to Sebastian having an assignment later this evening.
> 
> This is basically the first half of what turned into an Epic Chapter, so the next installment'll pick up right where this one ends.
> 
> Title from Spacehog this time: _and all the stars will smile for me/ when all is well and well is all for all/ and forever after/ in the meantime wait and see, yeah..._

Monday. Monday afternoon, to be precise. Sebastian, on the roof--back on the roof, back where whatever this is had all begun, the road that’s so far led him into and out of Chris’ apartment and currently into wearing Chris’ jacket like a proclamation of allegiance--flops onto the familiar faded flowers of their sofa, and dangles one leg off the side. Space. Freedom. A lack of soreness. Breathing room.

It’s one in the afternoon. The city’s gold and silver and red-brick and pavement-pale, unfolding like a symphony. Bodies off to jobs, to lunch breaks, to appointments and promises kept. The school’s open beneath him, Anthony and the pretty red-haired dance instructor who comes in on Mondays no doubt flirting casually over terrible coffee. They don’t know he’s here.

It’s one in the afternoon and he’s so rarely even awake this early and when he closes his eyes the sun’s heat dances behind his eyelids. The ancient weathered sofa hulks peaceably beneath him.

Nikolaj’s around as well, presently resolutely glaring at ubiquitous New York pigeons on the fire escape, having not left him alone for an instant of the past four days. Sebastian, eyes still shut, doesn’t _not_ think about that fact, but does set it aside gingerly in a corner of his brain for examination some other day. Right now the world’s made of sunshine and the worn folds of Chris’ jacket falling over his hands and the vaguely musty scent of tattered supportive furniture and the way that nothing--not his body, not his head--even hurts, not really, not much, at least.

He fishes his mobile phone out of his pocket. Rolls onto his back, gazing up at the sky, imagining music-notes in lines of stray cloud. Tchaikovsky. Rachmaninoff.

Sinatra. Presley.

He’d said he’d call. He wants to.

Under the clouds and sunshine, he’s shaken and astonished by that. He wants to call Chris. To say...he doesn’t even know, precisely. Thank you. I’m all right. I think you want me to call, I think you mean it, and I don’t know why you mean it but I don’t want to disappoint you, I feel wrong when I think about you disappointed because of me, and that’s new.

The thing is, he’s used to being a disappointment. To his father, to his bodyguards, to the world, he supposes. He’s used to being pretty, to being a night’s valuable entertainment, to being reckless and numb.

The thing is, Chris has seen the worst of him now, has seen him at his worst, broken and intoxicated and late for the children who depend on them, not good enough for them, and not good enough to be his father’s prize whore either, not when he’d let Nikolaj take him away from Hobbes and the scene when for all he knew they’d’ve wanted him ten more times.

The thing is, Chris put an arm around him and sang with him and made him smile.

The thing is that Chris is somehow not yet disappointed in him, but will be if Sebastian doesn’t call, doesn’t do this one simple thing.

You promised, nudges the closest sunbeam, lying over his hand, lying across the screen of his mobile phone. Go on.

He’s up this early because he’d been in bed early, the way he has been since that night, Friday and Saturday and Sunday so far. Nikolaj’d taken him to the second of the usual safe-houses--Sebastian knows about five and suspects there’re more--and he’d slept most of Friday and into Saturday morning, awakened in sudden panic--did he have an appointment, Saturday, parties, there must be--and been told in no uncertain terms that he was in no shape to be given to anyone as a reward.

He watches the sunbeam travel lazily across his fingertips. Touches a finger to the phone’s screen.

Before he can start thinking, he calls.

Someone male and younger-voiced, decidedly not Chris, says, “Hi, Chris’ phone, he’s eating pizza right now, who is this?” and Chris’ voice yells in the background, _“Scott!”_

Sebastian stares at the phone, rather nonplussed. Very, very politely, voice not shaking even a little bit, says, “Never mind, thank you, I--”

“Oh!” The not-Chris now sounds elated. “Are you his secret boyfriend? Because my brother keeps denying that you even exist, and--”

...brother. Ah. He breathes out again.

“Give me the fuckin’ phone!” Chris demands on the other end, and Scott inquires cheerfully, “You play the piano, right, because he totally has drawings of an absolutely gorgeous guy playing the piano in his sketchbook and--”

“When the hell did you go through my stuff--” There are noises indicative of a much-practiced sibling squabble, thumping and scuffling over the connection. Sebastian waits, curious and inexplicably close to breaking out into laughter; Scott, very close to the speaker, says, “If you’re going to get disgustingly drunk at my place and play, of all things, _Maroon 5 songs_ and then tell me you can’t tell me what’s going on, I’m of course going to go through your sketchbook after you pass out, what do you expect--ow!”

“You deserved that,” Chris grumbles. “Sorry, sorry, my brother’s a complete moron with no sense of privacy--”

“Says the person who outed me as gay to the first reporter who asked!”

Chris audibly winces. “I didn’t mean to--”

“He didn’t mean to,” Scott agrees, apparently addressing Sebastian now. “He’s incapable of lying in the face of direct questions, though. Like Pinocchio. But, like, that’s actually awesome, because he’ll never lie to you, he’s the nicest guy I know, you should totally go out with him, he’s a pretty cool big brother eighty percent of the time and he’s the most loyal person I’ve ever met and he does volunteer work and--”

“Stop talking,” Chris interrupts, “or I will drop this slice of pizza _on your head.”_

“I know,” Sebastian says. “He is...also the nicest guy I know.” And both Evans siblings plus the inquisitive sunbeam go quiet.

Sebastian, stretched out across the lumpy old cushions of their sofa, surrounded by distant city noise, smiles. Only a little, but he can’t not.

“Um,” Chris says. “I--thank you. Scott, go away for a minute. I need to talk to Sebastian. Seb--”

“Sebastian? Cool. He’s got a cute voice, too. You should keep him. Okay, okay, going, I have an audition to get to anyway, nice to meet you, Sebastian--”

“Likewise,” Sebastian offers, ninety percent out of rote and just a tiny bit because, well…

...it sort of is.

“He’s gone,” Chris says. “I’m so sorry. My family’s crazy. And Scott’s trying to be an actor--well, not trying, he’s actually getting roles, um, soap operas, mostly, but he also thinks that means he knows something about relationships, which, no. He brought me lunch. You don’t have siblings, do you? Because if you want any I’ll sell you mine. Cheap. Like a dollar apiece. Fifty cents for that one.”

“He loves you.” Sebastian sits up a bit more. Curls one leg under himself. “And you love him. And no, only me.”

“Lucky,” Chris mutters, but the affection’s glinting bright as day under that. “So, um. You called. You did call. Are you...y’know...how are you?”

“I’m on the roof.”

Silence on the line, abrupt and tense as the moment before a jump. Sebastian hastily clarifies, “Sorry, sorry, I mean I’m on our roof. Our sofa. I’m all right. I was thinking about Tchaikovsky. I didn’t mean to interrupt you, if you’re busy--”

He doesn’t even know how Chris occupies himself during the day. How Chris earns money for art supplies and guitar strings. Volunteering doesn’t pay.

He does and doesn’t want to know. He wants to know what Chris likes and what Chris does for a living and what Chris dreams about on empty rooftops under far-off stars. He doesn’t want to step any closer, because the closer they get the more likely it is that Chris will end up someplace cold and full of guns, artist’s fingers broken one by one until Sebastian gives up some sort of information of value.

“I’m not busy!” A hair too fast, as if afraid Sebastian might hang up on the spot. “I mean, I have, y’know, a few errands to run, and I have to get this poster design finished--um, my uncle’s a congressman, he sort of pays me to do campaign art. Not a lot, but. Y’know. Somethin’.”

“You make a living,” Sebastian says, and lifts a hand, tracing music notes through the clouds, “out of art.” And Chris, after a second’s pause, laughs very softly. “Guess I do.”

“You...drew me. Your brother said. With a piano.”

“Oh God,” Chris says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--I should’ve asked, of course I should’ve--they’re not very good anyway, just from memory, I couldn’t--you can have them if you want, or I’ll shred them or something, I’m sorry--”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing them.” He plays a fragment of _Swan Lake,_ noiseless and one-handed. “But you can keep them. Don’t destroy your art.” Not for me, he almost adds. “Them, though...more than one?”

“Um,” Chris says guiltily. Genuinely not good at direct questions, then. “Maybe, yeah...I kept trying to get your hands right, when you play…the motion’s hard...”

“Oh. Well…” His cloud’s being tugged off to the left by the wind, streaming like a castle pennant in the breeze. “What if I played for you? I mean something slow. After hours. Would that help?”

“Oh,” Chris echoes, equally quiet. “Yeah. Yes. If you--yeah.”

“I shouldn’t.” The sky’s so very blue, above. From here, looking up, it’s endless and bright. An upturned bell, crystal that’ll ring out loud if tapped by a fingernail. “It’s not a good idea.”

“But you want to.”

“I want to. Yes. _Da_.” He sighs. “Can I teach you how to properly throw a knife?”

“Okay.” Chris doesn’t seem terribly taken aback by the proposition. Almost as if he understands why. “Though I have to say, for the record, I also like basketball. I mean, if we’re talking hobbies.”

“...that would be the one with the hoops and nets, correct? And possibly the Lakers?”

“Please say you’re fucking with me,” Chris groans. “Please. That physically hurts.”

“Of course I am. Too easy. Celtics fan, I assume?”

“Oh thank God.”

“I’ve never in fact been to a game. But I’m not entirely ignorant.” In fact, he’s gained a modicum of knowledge from one of his father’s business associates who’s a fan. The man likes to throw parties on championship game days. Likes to have Sebastian on his knees after, win or lose, and often gets what he likes, because Sebastian’s father prefers to keep suppliers happy. Still: that man’s one of the kinder ones. Drugs offered, not forced on him, and truly apologetic in the morning if there’s blood or bruises.

He finds a new cloud to look at. This one might be Bach. “I ought to let you go. Design your poster. I’ll see you Thursday.”

“Sebastian,” Chris says, and then stops, and then asks anyway. “You are okay. I mean, you sound better, but…?”

“ _Sunt bine_. I’m okay. Your jacket’s safe as well.”

“So you’re both fine.” The smile’s right there at the surface of Chris’ voice. Sunwarmed drifting tides. “Good. I mean I’m glad you called. I mean, I knew you would, I’m just sorry you had to put up with my diabolical little brother first, thanks for not hanging up on us.”

“It was a near miss. Tempting. But I like...Scott.”

“Oh, ouch. Wounded. Right through the heart.” But Chris is still grinning. “Don’t let him hear you say so. He already thinks you’ve got a cute voice.”

Sebastian, after a heartbeat’s worth of consideration, after the idea, rejection of said idea, and finally what-the-hell running with the idea, says, “Unfortunately for him I am already taken.”

“You--”

“I believe I can only be expected to serve as secret boyfriend to one Evans at a time.”

“Ah, fuck,” Chris says, just a fraction too belated to be casual. “Sorry again. I’ll go replace his shampoo with hair dye or something tomorrow. I swear.”

“...remind me never to provoke you and then leave you alone near my shampoo.”

“Your Brotherhood of Scowling Gargoyles would probably shoot me if I tried.”

“Very likely.” One more chasm between their lives. As if he’d needed the reminder.

But Chris goes on, thoughtfully, “That wouldn’t work for you anyway. Something better. None of the standard, y’know, replacing all your underwear with one size smaller, or covering everything you own with aluminum foil, or …”

“Aluminum foil?”

“...you should get only my best,” Chris concludes airily. “Something special.”

Sebastian narrows eyes, though Chris can’t see. “I carry a knife, you recall, I’ve just reminded you.”

“...and so I’m thinking meeting Scott was probably enough.”

“He seems...nice.”

“He complimented your voice. Does that work? Should I have tried that line ages ago?”

Sebastian’s not entirely certain how to respond. Surely Chris doesn’t _mean_ it. It’s playful. Friendly. He’s never been good at playful or friendly.

The conversational hiatus stretches out, though not uncomfortably so. The sunshine’s warm. The air’s got a few teeth, but they’re not sharp, not yet. He doesn’t feel like moving. Chris’ accent lingers, laughing and kind, in his ear.

There is another occasion on the horizon. This upcoming Thursday night. His father’d called, the previous afternoon. Summoned him. Sebastian’d gone, hair casually messy, wearing his tightest jeans and a near-transparent green shirt and not bothering to cover up fading bruises, some sort of act of pointless voiceless heedless defiance: if you don’t care, I won’t care.

His father’d looked him up and down. Had ordered him to keep the visiting Russian partners happy during dinner. Had, on the other hand, expressly forbidden him from going home with any of them, without changing tone.

Sebastian’d been nearly off-balance enough to ask why. His father’s not someone who welcomes those sorts of questions, though. Never has been. Certainly not from his own son.

Anyway, he’s got an idea. Back to himself having left the party early, last time. Himself having evidently not been good enough in bed to please Hobbes and the rest. His father has no faith in him, obviously.

He’d nodded. Left. Not waiting for dismissal.

He’d contemplated getting extremely drunk in the wake of that meeting, but somehow the act didn’t sound appealing. The oblivion did, but not the effort; he’d ended up in front of his laptop, which’d magically materialized at their safe house, watching Elvis Presley videos on YouTube and playing with piano adaptations on the virtual keyboard touchscreen, not thinking about anything at all except the next chords. When he’d looked up, it’d been dark.

“Oh, hey,” Chris says, obviously rallying the conversation, moving on, being compassionate about that hesitation. “If you’re gonna start translating for me--”

“I am not.”

“--that thing your favorite bodyguard calls you, should I ask? I’d’ve googled, but you don’t want to see me try to spell anything, even in English.”

Sebastian sighs. “He only does it in order to annoy me. But...it is technically accurate, as far as rank--within the circle, I mean--and my father likes the respect, so I can’t even order him not to...oh, _la naiba,_ why not...ah, the closest you can get in English...Highness.”

There’s a two-second pause. And then Chris tosses back, “Should I bow when I see you, then?”

Sebastian makes a very rude gesture even though only the clouds and the sky can see him. They don’t care. “Entirely no, _cățeluș_.”

“We’re gonna have to have a talk about pet names, you realize.”

“ _Pet_ names--”

“Yeah, you know, it’s an idiom, about--”

“I know what it means!”

And then there’s a busy silence during which Sebastian knows they’re _both_ thinking about the sorts of situations in which one might employ pet names.

What he doesn’t know is how Chris feels about those situations. What Chris meant, saying the words.

“I will see you Thursday,” he says, before the silence can go on too long, before Chris can regret any of this conversation, these stolen moments of sunshine. “I have to go.”

And then he ends the call. And starts thinking about the best way down from the school’s rooftop in the middle of the afternoon; starts thinking about ensuring that Chris’ spare clothing’s been cleaned and dropped back off--he needs to check on that; he’d asked and they’d vanished from his room but he really ought to make sure. He doesn’t think about his father, or about that upcoming dinner.

He thinks about Thursday afternoon, instead. He can bring a spare slim steel knife and Chris can bring a pen and paper and they can stay late and drive his bodyguards crazy and maybe, maybe, have one more moment, just one, in which he can try to keep those sea-blue eyes safe, in which Chris can show him drawings, can sketch his hands if that might be somehow be of help in capturing movement on paper.

He will at some point have to give Chris up. That hasn’t changed. Just...not yet. For one more week. One more day. One at a time.

The fire escape--not the newer one on the far side, but the ancient rusted one--creaks and complains, taking his weight; but it holds, as he picks his way down. Not even a good metaphor, he thinks at the universe, amused, but takes the next step anyway.

And the days unspool. Tuesday. Wednesday. One at a time.

Thursday. Thursday, and he’s seeing Chris.

He’s seeing Chris and he’s been sober for nearly a week, really proper sober minus a single glass of scotch or two while watching various Disney movies--especially the obvious act of insanity that’s entitled _The Emperor’s New Groove,_ which had required extra scotch--on his laptop. He’d spent most of the previous Thursday night in Chris’ bed, and while some of the beginning of that remains fuzzy, the majority of the moments shine like jewels, clear-cut and brilliant and priceless and unforgettable. He’d then spent the weekend sleeping and healing in that second safe-house; but somehow he’d never felt as safe as he had for those first few hours. Never quite as warm.

He’s seeing Chris and he doesn’t know how to see Chris. Not now. He wants to smile and he wants to run. Too close. Too much. Too intimate.

He needs to ask Chris whether borrowed clothing has in fact been returned, acceptably washed. He needs to see Chris smile back at him, because he’d heard the smile in that Boston-skyline voice over the phone, and that’s not enough. He needs to see it, to feel it.

He doesn’t know what to wear. He hovers, wearing only equally baffled pyjama pants, staring at his closet. Jeans? Which color? How tight? Would Chris like him in a waistcoat, a touch more dressed up and showing off his slimness, or is that ridiculous because this isn’t a date, for fuck’s sake, this is their standing weekly appointment, nothing special?

He pulls out one of his older, looser, long-sleeved shirts. Regards it warily. This one’s probably too big on him these days, and what if Chris takes one look at the long sleeves and wonders what he’s trying to hide?

He throws the shirt back in the closet. Despairs in the directions of his mirror and the clock. It’s almost three.

The world’s grey and cloudy outside, but not raining, and not too cold. Cotton-fog and silvery wool. Encouraging as childhood blankets.

Someone’s childhood, anyway. Not his.

He pokes at a few t-shirts. Not dressing up. Not special. Right.

Chris likes classic rock. Where’s that one…

Ah. Red lettering on black clinging cotton. Probably a bit too punk, but close enough, and the rock and roll will never die sentiment is, if he’s remembering right, a classic rock reference in any case. Plus dark grey jeans, not quite the most contemporary cut but comfortable and broken in just right; black jacket, slightly untidy hair because he knows it does look good that way, black boots. He considers the effect. Not bad.

And then he laughs out loud at himself--really, as if it’s going to matter, as if Chris is going to _want_ him--and then stops, surprised. The sound’s surprised as well. Not used to existence.

He scoops up his standard companionable knife, flipping it idly over his fingers. His hands seem more steady this week. Interesting, if logical given the circumstances.

He drops that one into his left boot, and pauses to run fingers over the spare, lying on his bed. Sharp edges and cool steel. Grey like the arch of the sky. It’s expensive--his father’d never permit any weapons of less than acceptable quality into the circle--and he wonders whether Chris has ever wielded a knife, held a gun, been trained to take cover and listen to bodyguards in the event of an assassination attempt. Chris has impressive muscles--extremely impressive muscles--and a lot of heart, but Sebastian’s also witnessed those muscles walking into doors and tripping over chairs on multiple occasions, distracted and labrador-clumsy.

He doesn’t have a spare gun--he’s never carried one--but he can give Chris this, at least. They can practice. They can practice weekly if need be, until he’s convinced Chris knows how to use the slender steel.

Some piece of his brain’s aware that this wholly contradicts everything he’s told himself about giving Chris up. He decides, with great purpose of mind, to ignore that piece for now.

He slides the spare knife into a jacket-pocket--designed for that, in fact, for the boss’ son--and pulls on Chris’ bomber jacket over the whole ensemble even though it matches not in the slightest, and glances at his reflection one last time. There’s double his usual weaponry hidden in his outfit, and he shouldn’t be pulling Chris any deeper into his world, and his eyes shouldn’t look happy.

Inexplicably, they do.

Chris wants to draw his hands. After hours, perhaps, in the quiet. And it doesn’t mean anything, he can’t think that it means anything, Chris needs to study joints and tendons in motion. His are convenient. And he did offer, in what must’ve been a bout of temporary insanity.

And so: Chris is going to draw his hands.

He opens the bedroom door before Nikolaj can knock, and startles his head bodyguard with a smile. “Are we going?”

This earns a flat and suspicious scowl. “Are you sober?”

“As a judge, I believe the expression goes. Though not any of the ones we currently bribe. Come on.”

“Are you _certain_ you’re sober?”

Sebastian stops. Holds out both arms, careless and widespread. “Would you like to check? To search me? The room? Feel free.”

Nikolaj glowers at him for a minute longer than’s strictly comfortable. Then turns and stalks toward the door. Sebastian takes this as a small victory, and follows.

They’re early, arriving at the school. He pauses for a moment to run a hand over crumbling brick and mortar and wrought iron, outside. Feels the time and the wear, gritty old grandeur beneath fingertips. I’m sorry, he says to it silently. You deserve better. Better than me. You deserve to be saved.

The old brick and mortar and iron don’t answer, but rest under his hand like an appreciative aging cat, too tired to move but glad for the attention. Sebastian breathes out, ignores his bodyguard looking askance at him, and hops up the front steps three at a time, mostly because he can. Long legs, the tap of his boots on pavement, the chill of the afternoon. So very real, so very tangible, the world. Not dull and shrouded by numbness. Not today.

Out of habit, he slips through the door noiselessly. Wanders down the threadbare hall and out into the big tall-windowed room that hosts art and music and dance classes for free.

Chris is there, as Chris is always there. That is, in fact, one of the fundamental qualities of Chris Evans: always being there. Whatever anyone needs.

At this specific moment Chris is being there for one of his students, a teenage boy with dark skin and dark eyes and a spiraling tattoo along one forearm and sagging jeans and a sparkle in his gaze as they talk about depth and perspective. Chris sketches something that Sebastian can’t make out, a graceful sweep of pencil; the boy nods and copies it. Chris hasn’t turned, because Sebastian’s made no noise, and the twin joys of artist and volunteer are on display in the gestures of one large hand, in the set of broad shoulders, the tilt of his head.

Sebastian leans a shoulder against the wall. Crosses his arms. Shamelessly eavesdrops on all that bonfire warmth. From a distance.

A few of his own students’re present too, either simply early or because they’ve got nothing better to do or because they like Chris. Sebastian, who in the privacy of his own head will admit that he likes Chris as well, can sympathize.

One of them in particular catches his eye. At first he’s unsure why his gaze has snagged on that one, out of the three or four he knows. He comes up with her name, after a second of fishing: Amber, young, coltishly pretty, not in fact too bad at the piano but better at pretending not to be interested, able to eat five bagels in one sitting. She likes to chew gum, rather obnoxiously, while he’s explaining the sequence of notes for the fifth time to brand-new students. He recognizes that attitude. He should. He knows it too well.

Right now, though, she’s barely even paying attention to Chris, and not in the usual fuck-you-I’m-here-because-you’ve-got-free-food fashion. Staring fixedly at the nearest wall. Eyes dilated. Vacant. And she seems to be cold, unheeded goose-bumps rising along her arms.

Sebastian watches, and doesn’t stop leaning on his own wall because that’d be too obvious, but the recognition’s instantaneous and icy and absolute.

He knows that state of mind, too.

He doesn’t know, though, what he ought to do. Somewhat surprisingly, this has never happened before, at least not that he’s seen, not counting his own abysmal collapse of the previous week. Anthony runs a clean house, here. No using on the premises. No buying or selling. And the kids’ve by some unspoken agreement respected that, or maybe at least respected a place with free food.

This is wrong. This is...not right. And she’s one of his kids, and she begrudgingly butchers Chopin when called upon but does it with aggressive determination, and he can’t watch her become him.

He can’t. Not a choice.

But that brings up another problem, one he considers with weary self-disgust, so ordinary an emotion he barely even notices on a usual day.

He can’t say anything. Not to Amber. For one, she’s one of the kids who’d looked at him last week and known. For another, he can’t imagine how he’d even begin. Stop? Don’t walk down this road? Who’d pay attention to a warning from him, when he’s already so far ahead and not turning back? No. He’s got a knife in his pocket and another one in his boot and he’s not good for anything except putting other people in danger, and maybe on occasion uninhibited wanton decadent sex. He can’t be anyone’s savior.

Which drug is it? How bad? He runs through symptoms--through experiences--in his head. Not cocaine. Not ecstasy. Possibly marijuana; possibly not. Not heroin. Acid, perhaps. LSD. That might fit. And it’s one of the better options, if there are any better options here. Not addictive, or not physically. Mentally, the altered consciousness’s quite attractive. He remembers, insofar as those memories can be trusted.

She won’t listen to him. That’s fair. No one _should_ listen to him. He’s the exact opposite of the poster boy for healthy choices.

But she might listen to Chris.

And Chris, who’s held him in the night and refused to judge him and bandaged his wrist, might listen to him. Not because Sebastian’s any sort of equal to all that goodness, but because this is one area in which he’s unfortunately an expert, and, well. Now Chris knows as much, about him.

Has to count for _something,_ that.

Chris’ class isn’t quite over, but they’ve only got about fifteen minutes left. Sebastian shifts weight, propped against his wall, deciding. And then stands up and deliberately knocks a boot against a scuffed baseboard. Making noise.

Chris spins around. Blue eyes light up. Fireworks across Boston Harbor. Sebastian, astonished--so much excitement, so comprehensively directed at him--finds himself breathless for an instant, unable to move.

Chris says something to his student, gets up, bounces over, all pencil-dust and neatly trimmed beard and exuberant energy. “Hey!”

“Ah...hello?” Half of him--more than half--wants to step forward and let those wide-flung arms wrap around his shoulders. The more sensible part wants to inch backwards. A no man’s land. Invisible barricades.

“You’re early!” Chris sounds as if he’s unlocked a great hidden treasure of the universe. A whole new continent. Unsuspected glorious vistas. Sebastian wanting to come to his class. “How long’ve you been here, I didn’t hear you come in, not that I ever hear you, you’re like a cheetah or something--I mean, unless you hate cheetahs, not that anyone would, they’re awesome, but--never mind, fuck, what am I even saying, Chris, you moron. Hi. How are you--”

Sebastian, interrupting what’s likely a kindly meant but irritatingly compassionate question about how he’s feeling, says, “Chris.”

And Chris stops talking, and looks at him.

 

There’s something in the line of Sebastian’s shoulders, something tense and unhappy that translates to the way his arms are crossed tightly, in the lines around his eyes and mouth. Chris folds back his excitement at once, alarm racing through his spine like he’s been stabbed. He inhales through a thrill of rising concern and makes himself remain calm. He does come closer, though, and as unobtrusively as possible glances over Sebastian’s shoulder.

If something is wrong, then surely Nikolaj will be hanging around, being his usual menacing self, endeavoring to look dangerous and aloof but, Chris suspects, reluctantly fond of the children. Chris also suspects this fondness is born out of how happy Sebastian seems to look when he’s here at the school. No matter what Sebastian appears to believe, Nikolaj does care.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, already wondering what he could possibly do in order to help. Offer shelter again? But--no, hadn’t Nikolaj said his apartment is woefully inadequate to keep anyone safe? More than a bit insulting, that. Although Chris can’t argue--literally can’t, he doesn’t have the knowledge to back up his defense, and also probably wouldn’t, since all Nikolaj has complained about is based on his need to protect Sebastian.

Sebastian’s hand moves slowly out and finds his elbow, and he turns him, gently, to the side, eyes flicking pointedly in the same direction. Chris allows himself to be directed.

His stomach plummets.

“Amber,” he murmurs, a ripple of concern and sadness wracking down his spine, cold like ice. “God, how did I miss that?”

“Lack of first-hand experience,” Sebastian says flatly.

Chris frowns at him, noticing the dark note of self-disgust in his melodious voice.

“It’s not the same,” he murmurs, keeping the anger in check.

“You know that for a fact,” Sebastian replies, eyeing him doubtfully.

Chris very deliberately inhales a long, even breath, and shoves this aside. He’s angry, now, and this time at least a part of his anger is directed at Sebastian, but this isn’t the time or venue to hash this out. There might never be a right time or place to hash it out, actually; Chris isn’t sure he can’t differentiate the anger at Sebastian’s attitude towards himself from his own feelings for Sebastian--feelings that have crystallized and become clearer and deeper every day--and it would be unfair and wrong to argue with Sebastian because of his own emotions.

Not like Sebastian doesn’t have plenty of problems of his own to deal with. No need to burden them with Chris’, too.

“You need to talk to her,” Sebastian is saying, blue eyes plaintive and troubled.

Chris look at him a bit more closely, noticing the way his fingers are clenched on the fabric of his jacket sleeve, the casual way he’s leaning against the doorway like he has to force himself to look nonchalant and uninterested. A shield, an armor: disdain.

Chris has to inhale through a clenching of pain in his chest, through the following wave of anger at the way Sebastian’s been hurt. By the people who ought to want what’s best for him.

“You mentioned first-hand experience,” Chris starts. “I’ll be with you, absolutely, whatever you need, but I really think it would be best coming from you.”

“Nothing is best coming from me,” retorts Sebastian, lips turning into a straight line. He’s angry, too, Chris can see that, but it’s dim like an ember, like it’s a bright light shining through too many shrouds. Sebastian knows how to conceal himself; that he’s allowing Chris to see even this much feels like a gift. Trust so deep it makes Chris feel humbled.

Chris has seen walking wounded enough to understand that someone allowing an outsider to see anger is a proof of trust. Anger is one of the truest and deepest emotions, one that reveals true vulnerability. If something makes you angry, it hurts you, it’s a weakness, it can be used as a weapon. Anger isn’t necessarily an ugly emotion. It can be a clean one, too, an honest one.

“You really think I could do better?” he asks.

“I think you having this conversation with someone would not make you a disgusting hypocrite,” Sebastian hisses, eyes narrowed and bright.

Chris clamps down on the heated surge of anger that climbs up his chest and throat. He can feel the blush start to rise on his skin, hot at the hollow of his throat. He takes a deep breath instead and lets go of the anger. No use for it now. No point in nursing the flame.

“Can you tell what she might be on?”

Sebastian’s eyes flick back to the teenager, narrowing in thought. “LSD, maybe.”

Chris allows himself one nervous gesture and runs his hand agitatedly through his hair. “Okay. Not great but definitely not the worst case scenario.”

“I’ll know more when I sit her in front of the piano.”

Chris nods, mind racing. Amber’ll need someone to watch over her, like Sebastian had last week. She doesn’t have someone like Nikolaj at her side; all she has is an absent father whom she always mentions with thinly veiled hostility, an alcoholic mother who works two shifts a day at a diner, and--them. Sebastian, who noticed, and cared enough to bring it to Chris’ attention. Chris knows if he tells Anthony, he’ll help them too.

But there exists this unspoken rule, this general consensus amongst the children and volunteers here, to try to shelter Anthony from their worst. Not because Anthony can’t take it--he certainly can, and will, and he’ll even smile throughout, soothing and comforting. Anthony, though, he shoulders so damn much; voluntarily, willingly, like Chris. And like Chris, he has broad shoulders that can carry all the weight. But a lot of that is very heavy stuff, like keeping the school running, making it a safe and clean space, a haven for children in need, a shelter, and it’s not easy, not with so many of these children coming from violent environments unwilling to let them go.

Chris knows of at least a dozen times a dealer or irate parent has threatened Anthony with physical violence if he doesn’t stop interfering with the kids, and he also knows Anthony hasn’t told him of every single time.

Chris thinks, suddenly, that Nikolaj probably knows all about every man or woman that’s threatened Anthony. If keeping the school a safe place for Sebastian is part of his job description, then he must necessarily also have to ensure Anthony can keep running it. He makes a mental note of asking Anthony if these incidents have decreased or even stopped entirely since Sebastian started volunteering. Chris certainly hasn’t heard of one in a while.

Keeping Amber at the school is definitely not an option, is the thing.

“I can tell what you’re thinking,” Sebastian says quietly, eyeing him meaningfully. “Might want to take a moment to really consider that in depth.”

“No,” Chris says decisively. “It’s the best option. She knows us. She knows where I live, she lives in the same direction so we walked over together a couple times. It’s a safe place.”

“ _Aşteaptă_ , you can’t just,” Sebastian waves a hand vaguely towards Chris in a gesture that seems to encompass his shoulders and chest. “you’re not a damn knight in shining armor, will you stop trying to save people, you should know life isn’t a fairytale and knights don’t always win the joust.”

“You’d be a King Arthur fan. I shoulda known.” Chris says fondly.

“Romanian folklore isn’t as happy as American fairytales,” Sebastian says darkly.

Chris has a thing or two to say about the ‘happiness’ of American fairytales, but one of the kids is looking up from his drawing in clear search of his wayward teacher, so he’s running out of time. “How do you know if you can slay a dragon if you never try?”

Sebastian’s eyebrows crease close in a small frown. “This subject is getting away from us. I suggested you talk to her, not let her into your apartment to steal your silver.”

“Silver? Do you _remember_ my apartment?” Chris shakes his head and places his hands gently on Sebastian’s arms, dipping his head slightly to find Sebastian’s skeptical blue eyes. “Sebastian, we can do this. We can help her.”

“You can, I’m not,” he stops, like his throat has dried up. He makes that odd gesture of his again, the graceful liquid motion of a shrug, like his muscles have tightened and breathing is hard and painful. His eyes aren’t wet--Chris thinks it might take a hell of a lot to make Sebastian cry--but they are definitely on the bright side. “I don’t help people, Chris, that’s _you_. That’s not what I’m made for.”

Chris has to devote a significant amount of effort into not letting the heartbreak show on his face. “Of course you are,” he says softly. “You’re _here_ , aren’t you? You noticed Amber. You told me about her. That’s helping. And you can still help so much. Talking isn’t gonna cut it; talking is just words. Kids like Amber,” kids like you, he thinks sadly. “they know words are sounds and air and little more. But actions-- _actions_ can turn this around. So let’s do this. Let’s show her we care. You can do that, Sebastian, I trust you.”

“ _Păcăli,_ ” Sebastian mutters, bringing up a hand to rub at his face briskly.

“We’ve been over this,” Chris says, gesturing to the kid looking for him that he’ll be right there. “Insult me in English.”

“I called you a fool,” Sebastian scowls. “Because that’s what you are. But, _la naiba,_ it’s contagious. Yes, I’ll help, of course I’ll help. Anything. She--yes. She needs you.”

“Us,” Chris corrects quickly. “After your class? Can you stay?”

Sebastian nods, frowning. “I was going to. You said, last time… I was going to,” he stops, shakes his head. Like he’s discarding an idea. “I can stay. For a few hours. I have… a commitment.”

A commitment. Chris swallows, and something must show on his face, because Sebastian’s eyes dart away, head tilting down so Chris can’t see his expression.

“ _Îmi pare rău,_ I’m sorry, not--not all night. Only dinner.”

Chris shakes his head, dares rest his hand on the back of Sebastian’s neck tenderly. “Don’t apologize,” he murmurs to the crown of that bowed head. “Never to me, alright? There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Sebastian looks up at him through shy eyelashes, like he can’t quite believe it. Words and actions, Chris thinks sadly. Well, if he has to prove himself to Sebastian over and over, he damn well will.

“I could--come back? After?’

“Yes,” Chris says at once. “That’s a great idea. Um, I have to go back to the class, it’s not over yet--stay here, please?”

Sebastian nods.

“Okay,” Chris lets go of him and stands there like an idiot for a moment, just looking at him. Sebastian is still thin and his clothes are still not quite weather appropriate, besides Chris’ own jacket, and he’s not going to lie to himself, Sebastian wearing his jacket…that makes him feel things. Sebastian looks _good,_ though; his face is a healthy color and his hands are steady and his eyes are vibrant and awake, present. He looks better than he has in a while; an abyss of distance between today and last week.

Chris had been so grateful that Sebastian had called. He’d been surprised, hadn’t really been expecting the call, although of course he had hoped for it. Sebastian had still not been alright when he had left his apartment; there had been talk of a safehouse, a secure location, rather than his own home. Chris had resigned himself to waiting a week to know anything about his progress, about whether he was doing alright. So the call had been a great surprise, and he’d handled himself like a complete dumbass, which is par for the course. Scott hadn’t helped, but Scott rarely helps.

“Well?” Sebastian arches his brows.

“Huh?”

“Class,” Sebastian reminds him, and even makes a shooing gesture with a hand, like dismissing a puppy.

“Oh yeah! Don’t go.”

“Not going,” Sebastian calls back when Chris has already turned and is jogging back to the kid that was needing him.

He’s working with watercolors, which is a delicate thing and easily ruined, but it turns out he’s actually doing okay. The solid colors are well delineated and the faded ones blend in nicely. Chris grins at him, suggests he tries to create shapes only with watercolors, eschewing the limits of predetermined black shapes. He assures him it’ll probably be a mess to start, but he’ll be glad for the freedom later.

Ten minutes later, as the class wraps up and the kids from the music class start to arrive, Sebastian finally shakes himself from his introverted mood and, for the first time in a while, actually turns on the charm.

It’s devastating. He’s all smiles and bright eyes and clever little jokes, peals of genuine laughter that make him throw back his head and lace his fingers together--a habit, Chris realizes suddenly, adopted as a conversion from reaching out to others. Something Sebastian has taught himself; to keep his mirth contained and his hands to himself.

It’s an honest charm and he’s only slightly acting it up, but Chris knows that he’s very deliberately making all the kids focus on him, attracting all the attention. It keeps curious and concerned eyes away from Amber, who interacts with Sebastian in only the vaguest of ways, doing as he suggests at the piano keys but unable to extract from them an actual, coherent melody.

Suddenly Sebastian turns that devastating smile on him, and there is a gleam in his eyes that bodes ill.

“Why don’t we play something Chris can sing?” he suggests. Chris’ throat dries up. The kids roar with approval of this plan, fascinated at both the chance to see Chris sing well or witness him failing catastrophically.

Sebastian makes it easy for him. His fingers dance over the keys and it takes Chris hardly a moment to recognize the tune and laugh out loud, slapping his palms against his thighs.

“Come on,” Sebastian says, smiling slowly. “People tell me everybody knows this song.”

Chris shakes his head and sits down on the bench next to Sebastian, shoulders brushing.

“Ariel,” he starts, leaning forward and grinning at one of the girls. “listen to me. The human world is a mess. Life under the sea is better than anything they’ve got up there,” he sits up and gives Sebastian a look. “Sing along.”

Sebastian laughs, shaking his head. “The seaweed is always greener,” he says, slanting a lazy smile in Chris’ direction. “in somebody else’s lake.”

They sing the whole song, and Chris acts it out, playing around with the kids, who eventually start dancing and acting along. It’s good, it’s--better than good, it’s amazing, fantastic. Sebastian seems to glow with it, with the momentary happiness. Chris wishes he got to see this side of him more often; that Sebastian felt safe showing it to everyone.

Amber lingers against the wall, smiling faintly, eyes still a little unfocused, shivering intermittently.

Sebastian finishes the song with an improvised little flourish, a cascade of high, happy-sounding notes. The kids applaud, and Chris takes a moment to bow elaborately before overseeing the preparations for departure. These kids rarely forget anything they came in with--they don’t have a lot to spare so what little they have is precious and zealously guarded--but Chris feels better if he helps them make sure.

It also gives Sebastian a moment to approach Amber in relative privacy. He leans against the wall at her side, facing her, hands in his pockets. He’s speaking softly, too softly for Chris to listen, and his expression is carefully neutral. It’s a mistake, Chris can tell at once. Sebastian is too used to protecting himself, too deep inside his own mask to come across as genuine. Amber isn’t listening to him; she’s not even looking at him.

Chris herds the last boy out the door and then pauses, breathing in.

Then the unexpected happens. Sebastian breathes in, a deep bracing breath, and ducks to catch Amber’s eyes. His expression is suddenly--broken open, like a fracture on thick armor plating. He’s done it on purpose, is the thing--he’s allowed himself to be genuine, to be _vulnerable_. Amber’s eyes skitter away from him and then return in a double-take, taking in his expression with mild surprise that shines even through the drug clouding her eyes.

The next question Sebastian makes, she actually answers, quietly, and she wraps her arms tightly around herself.

Chris walks slowly closer to them, hands in his pockets.

“Hey,” he tells Amber softly. “You doing okay?”

Amber’s eyes fall down to the floor. Sebastian shrugs out of Chris’ jacket and drapes it over Amber’s shoulders carefully, like he’s ready to back off at the first sign of rejection. But Amber just clutches the jacket lapels and huddles into the borrowed heat, looking fairly miserable.

“Nice part’s passing,” Sebastian explains, resting his hand gently on her shoulder. “It’s always a hard crash the first time around.”

Chris nods. “You wanna come home with me and ride this off before your mom comes back?”

Amber nods slowly, shyly.

“What is taking so long,” Nikolaj calls from the doorway, appearing suddenly in his long overcoat and sunglasses, looking as sharp and deadly as ever.

“Nikolaj, can you drive us to Chris’ apartment?”

The bodyguard stares him down. “It’s five blocks away. You can’t walk them? What is--” he stops, eyes landing on Amber for a moment, and then actually raises his eyes to the ceiling before coming into the classroom, hands pressed together. He stops a few feet away and peers at Chris curiously from above the tops of his sunglasses.

“Are you running a charity? Is it tax deductible?” Before Chris can open his mouth, he keeps going. “Are you going to keep inviting strays into your home, because if we’re going to make a habit out of this, I feel like we should maybe start off a little bit further down on the ‘pathetic’ chain than startup junkies--”

Sebastian says something sharply in Romanian. Nikolaj’s eyebrows fly up in honest surprise, possibly at the tone, possibly at the content. He starts to say something, but Sebastian shoves away from the wall, shoulders rigid with tension and anger, and releases another round of rapid-fire Romanian in what sounds a lot like a warning. Nikolaj takes off his sunglasses and folds them with a practiced motion of his wrist, nodding. His eyes are downcast.

“ _Scuzele mele,_ ” he says softly. Then looking at Amber, “My apologies.”

Amber shrugs, obviously recognizing that Nikolaj is the sort of man you don’t mess around with. She’s inching away from him subtly, unconsciously putting Sebastian between them.

“Will she be needing a medic?” Nikolaj asks solicitously, tone mild and polite. “I will bring the car around.”

He dips his head in Sebastian’s direction once, doesn’t spare either Chris or Amber another shred of attention, and walks away with a long, loping stride that suggests a body control Chris could only ever hope for.

Chris puts an arm around Amber’s shoulders and pulls her close as they cross the classroom, giving Sebastian a curious look. Sebastian shrugs uncomfortably.

“He was being rude and cruel.”

Rude and cruel are pretty much the entirety of Nikolaj’s character as far as Chris has been able to observe, sometimes one or the other, sometimes combined, regularly sprinkled with humor black as sin and enough sarcasm to win him a contest. This is the first time Chris has seen Sebastian speak up and shoot him down, and he only did it because Nikolaj was insulting Amber. Judging by the bodyguard’s reaction, it isn’t anything Sebastian does often, or…possibly ever.

The car is a sleek blue Audi. Chris’ surprise must show on his face, because Sebastian smirks at him as he helps Amber into the backseat.

“Nothing says ‘criminal’ like a black sedan, _băiețel_. You gotta adapt to survive.”

“I’ve heard that word before,” Chris says, surrendering to his fate of being called maybe adorable but probably insulting pet names in languages he can barely differentiate from each other.

“Little boy,” Nikolaj translates from the passenger seat, turning around to give Sebastian a guarded, cool look. “I object to this.”

“Noted,” Sebastian says negligently, not even looking at him as he helps Amber buckle in her seatbelt.

“Hi,” Chris says to the driver. He’s a small man with pale hazel eyes and thick blond hair. He looks at Chris for a moment like he fails to understand the meaning of his existence, let alone his presence in this car.

“He doesn’t exist,” Nikolaj tells Chris in a tone of voice that suggests Chris’ helpless idiocy fills him with despair.

Chris settles back on the seat, awkward and really uncomfortable, more than a little scared, if he has to be honest, which he has no reason not to be. He just got in a car with two mobsters and a mobster boss’ popular, and _popular_ is a dreadfully accurate euphemism, son. Oh God, he just got a _kid_ into a mobster’s car, this is _terrible_.

Amber seems to be thinking something along these lines, because she is giving Sebastian a narrow, sharp glare filled with nascent understanding. Sebastian runs a hand through his hair nervously, looking out the window. The motion opens the side of his leather jacket. Low winter sun glints on metal on his inner jacket pocket. Chris frowns at him curiously.

Amber reaches out with a shaking hand and opens the jacket again, very deliberately.

There’s a knife in the inner pocket of Sebastian’s light leather jacket. The metallic cap of the hilt is what caught the light before.

Sebastian sighs and gently moves her hand away, smoothing the jacket down.

“You know better than to ask questions,” he tells her seriously, blue eyes calm, red lips pursed.

“Yeah,” Amber breathes. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

It takes them moments to get to Chris’ apartment. Once they’re on the right floor, an idea occurs to Chris, and he knocks on his neighbor’s door, still holding Amber close. The door’s yanked open, and Rosa stares at them both, surprised, covered in flour.

“Hey, Rosa,” Chris smiles. “This is Amber. She’s from the school, and she’s a little under the weather. Could I borrow your hot water bottle?”

“ _Ay si,_ one moment,” she ducks out of sight and hurries to the bathroom, then comes back with a bright yellow water bottle. “Feel better, sweetheart.”

“No one’s supposed to see me here,” Sebastian mutters once they’re inside Chris’ apartment.

“That was for Amber,” Chris tells him quietly. Sebastian’s eyes flick to her, to the way she’s curled up on the couch against the pillows. Chris sees him understand; he sees the moment Sebastian realizes it’s an additional safety for the girl to know that someone else knows she’s here with them, that she hasn’t dropped from the map.

“But it’s still a good idea,” Chris adds, throwing the water bottle so Sebastian catches it. “Think you can figure it out?”

“I don’t know, man,” Sebastian makes a doubtful face. “I _am_ a high school dropout. Stoves are kind of out of my league.”

“Good thing you’re pretty,” Amber says insolently, dragging Chris’ throw blanket over her legs and burrowing into it.

Sebastian’s humor dissolves, and he looks at her with a closed-off expression, lips thinning. It’s not anger, though, more like--like Amber has inadvertently slapped him across the face with a reminder of what he thinks he is.

“Yeah,” he says lowly. “Yeah. Good thing.”

He goes to the kitchen without uttering another word, but it’s like a shutter has slammed closed in his eyes. The tension is back in his shoulders and spine, the armor plates closing back and solidifying. Chris wishes he knew how to tell him he doesn’t need to hide and protect himself, not here in Chris’ apartment.

But he can’t tell Sebastian he’s safe here, can’t tell him nothing will hurt him here. Because that isn’t a promise Chris can keep, and he’d rather bite his own tongue than lie to Sebastian.


	6. Help! I'm Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian on assignment, Sebastian coming home to Chris, and the morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy winter holiday of your choice! Enjoy.
> 
> Title this time courtesy of Metric: _help! I'm alive/ and my heart is beating like a hammer..._

Out in the kitchen, the stove regards him with noncommittal neutrality. No opinions regarding Sebastian’s competence, prettiness, or dragon-slaying abilities. It’s both a relief and not, that at least one piece of the universe can’t be bothered to despise him.

Hot water, he thinks, and pokes at a dial. Surely this can’t be too complicated.

It’s not, though he does give up and verify proper temperature guidelines via the internet and his phone. Not boiling. Okay. To be fair, he’s never done this before.

He’s never done a great many things before. Sung Disney songs. Put his face, his true face, on display in front of even one of their kids, honest cracks in the charm he tries to show. Thought of anywhere as safe.

He knows that Chris’ apartment isn’t safe. Intellectually, he knows. His heart wants to disagree.

He looks at the yellow rubber in his hand, waiting to be filled. He’s aware that he’s focusing on small tasks. Not wanting to go back out into the other room; not wanting to look at Amber or Chris.

Pretty. He knows he is. Even when he’s trying to help, that’s what people see.

He’s not even hurt by the assessment, not the way he guesses normal people understand hurt. It’s true, she’s spot-on, getting him exactly right. He’s his father’s most prestigious whore. Prettiness is required. The ability to feel hurt is not.

After a while he can’t realistically stall his return any longer, so he comes back into the other room and sets the hot water bottle on the back of the sofa. “Here you are. I have successfully not burned down your apartment. I also washed your dishes.”

Both heads snap up in shock. Ah. Well, he’s used to moving noiselessly when he can, when not thoroughly drunk or being thrown onto a bed or otherwise incapacitated. He’s startled them. He refuses to apologize; they asked him to do something, and he did it.

Chris, sitting on a dragged-over desk chair, letting Amber have the full extent of the sofa, says, “You did what to my dishes? Also thanks.”

“Someone had to. They were on the brink of discovering agriculture. I left them out, though. I didn’t especially feel like snooping through your cupboards.” In fact, he’d been half-inclined--he’s always been curious, and it’s a good survival trait--but some mingled snarl of respect and apathy had argued otherwise.

Amber’s looking at him with an expression he can’t read. He says, “The worst will be the next hour or so. You’ll survive, though you may regret it for a while,” in case that’s what she’s wanting to know.

“Sebastian,” Chris starts.

“You know ’cause you’ve done it,” she says, like she’s expecting him to deny it. Sebastian shrugs. “Yes. More often than you. So believe me.”

 _“You’re_ okay,” she says, and it’s an accusation and a question: how do you do it, how do you do this, how do you make it through the endless days?

This time Chris says, “Amber,” and she glances at him with some guilt but no apology, not backing down.

It’s a fair question. He answers. Fairly. “I’m not. In perhaps two hours you should attempt to eat something. Any sooner and it won’t go well. Sleep if you can.”

Chris is looking up at him with something very like anguish in those compassionate eyes. Sebastian ignores this. “Do you need me for anything else? I have a dinner engagement.”

Chris now looks as if Sebastian’s slapped him. What’s more surprising is that Amber looks almost the same.

“You,” Chris says. “If you have to, but--you said you had some time, I thought--never mind.”

Amber, who has none of Chris’s tact, says, “You’re not gonna leave me, are you?”

Sebastian, in a reaction that can only be explained by Chris’ compassion somehow infecting his own standard cynicism, says, “Do you want me to stay?”

Nikolaj, lurking in the background, says, “You are making very poor choices, you understand,” and looks as if he wants to add either the title or an insult or potentially both.

“Yes,” Chris says, simple and earnest.

“Yeah,” Amber says, and looks away.

“Then...I can. For--”

“Two hours and eighteen minutes precisely,” Nikolaj supplies, “if you wish to change into more appropriate clothing before dinner.”

“--two hours and eighteen minutes. You _time_ how long it takes me to--” He stops. Of course his head bodyguard knows how long it takes him to get dressed. And undressed. And dressed again. “Fine.”

“Seventeen minutes, now.”

“Fine!” And then he hovers, unsure of what to do next. Amber’s on the sofa and Chris is perched in that desk chair and there’s not really room for more furniture, maybe he should just go back out to the peeling kitchen table--

“Come here,” Chris says, moving to stand up. “You did my dishes. You can have my chair.”

“I am hardly going to deprive you of a chair in your own home, _cățeluș.”_ There aren’t too many options left; he pads over to Chris’ side, and then, before all his logical brain cells and synapses can convince his heart that it’s an awful idea, folds his legs up and settles onto the floor at Chris’s feet, shoulder knocking gently against a startled knee.

Nikolaj, of all people, makes a tiny astounded movement. Chris seems to be afraid to stir or speak or breathe. Amber considers the new positioning, shrugs, and cuddles up with her hot water bottle and Chris’ blanket, and closes her eyes.

“Um,” Chris says, though it’s more of a squeak. Sebastian kind of wants to laugh, but only leans against his legs more purposefully. “Do try not to startle me. I’ve still got a knife. Two.”

“Um,” Chris says again, not moving a single muscle. “Are you--is this--that can’t be comfortable, are you--”

“I’ve been far less comfortable far more often.” He could turn his head and rest it against Chris’ leg. He doesn’t, but he could. “Your floor’s not bad. More Disney? Is that not your preferred prescription?”

“Pixar?” Chris breathes out, a slow single exhale. “ _Toy Story? Cars?_ The first one?”

“That shit’s for kids,” Amber dismisses, eyes still closed.

“Hey,” Chris says indignantly, “you’ve never seen _Up,_ have you? I’m not gonna make you cry, though, so _Cars_ it is. Oh.” The _oh_ is because he’s plainly just realized he can’t reach the remote for his television and hence Netflix without moving. Sebastian, feeling his mouth tug itself into an unbidden smile, unfolds legs, stretches that direction, settles back down in place. “Here.”

“Oh,” Chris says, looking down, fingers brushing his over cheap plastic, “um, thanks,” and Sebastian looks up, and the moment becomes forever.

“Either put on the movie or make out already,” Amber says, and pulls her blanket up higher.

Chris blushes everywhere. Cheeks, ears, even behind the beard. Sebastian watches, fascinated, while that American-history voice flails for words. “We’re not--that’s not--I mean--sorry--”

“For what,” Sebastian says, but the words come out somehow less flippant than he’d thought they would, more like honesty. He lets go of the remote, hastily. And doesn’t blush, because he’s years beyond embarrassment. Seriously. Years. Not even in the same decade. Not at all.

Chris, evidently opting to forgo further possibly troublesome words, starts the movie. Bright colors and zooming anthropomorphized automobiles fill the screen. Sebastian tips his head to look back at Chris.

“Just wait,” Chris says, sunniness a rather distressing retort to skepticism. “Trust me.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t talk through movies, morons,” Amber says. “I have a headache.”

“Sorry,” Chris apologizes, evidently sincere. Sebastian considers for a moment, silently calculating time. It’ll still get worse before it gets better. Saying that won’t help, though, so he just adjusts a leg into a more tenable long-term position on the floor and stays quiet.

He’s spent evenings sitting at other feet, on plusher rugs. This time there’s a Pixar movie whooshing through the background and the warmth of Chris behind his shoulder. This time he’s chosen to be here.

After a while Chris shifts position, then shifts position again. Fingertips brush the back of his neck; Sebastian’s first instinct, honed by past assassination attempts, is to jerk away and pull a knife, but he slams the lid firmly on that one and orders his body to remember the way Chris touched him back at the school, hand sliding large and steady to the back of his neck then too, like security, like surety, like a vow.

Chris leaves the hand there. Sebastian leans back a fraction more into it, and after a while says, “...Paul Newman? As a car?”

“Yeah?”

“I like Paul Newman.”

“Good to know.” Chris rubs a thumb gently over his skin, over the curling edge of hair that he’s been not bothering to get cut. “ _Butch Cassidy_ night sometime?”

“Are you crazy, the fall’ll probably kill ya,” Sebastian quotes lazily. “Sometime. Perhaps.” No commitment. He can’t. Chris can’t.

The fall, that fall, the kind of fall involving hearts, that’ll probably kill them. Not cinema magic, either. Real bullets and real guns. And the knives in his jacket, in his boot.

Amber’s asleep, which is the best option at the moment. She’ll feel like seven kinds of death warmed over tomorrow, but she’ll have spent the evening cared for and safe. Because Chris offered his home; because Sebastian offered to stay, and for some reason she’d wanted that too.

Chris is glancing at her as well. “I feel kind of parental, don’t you? Kinda nice.”

“ _Dumnezeule,”_ Sebastian says, horrified. “Good God. Decidedly not.”

“I don’t know, you’d be the fun dad, I could see it. You and _The Little Mermaid.”_

“I would _not.”_

“The kids all love you.” Chris’ hand’s kneading the back of his neck. It feels far too good there, as if one touch can magically dissolve years of pent-up tension. “You can teach them how to swear in, like, four languages.”

“Five. If anyone is the hypothetically fun paternal figure it is you. I’ve not had the best role models in this regard, you realize.”

“So you’re not arguing about the joint parenting thing, just the division of labor.”

“What--no! We are not having this conversation. This is not a conversation. No.”

“Uh-huh,” Chris agrees peacefully, and works on a particularly stubborn knot near the base of his skull with artist’s fingers.

Sebastian tries to scowl. This proves annoyingly impossible, given the contented state of his muscles. “Stop.”

Chris does. Instantly. Lifting hands away.

Sebastian, all at once off-balance, turns around to protest, and then trips over his own confusion. He did say stop, and Chris did; and now he wants to say he didn’t mean it, wants the hand back on that abruptly lonely spot of bare skin in the approaching night…

Chris stopped because they both know that _stop_ and _no_ and consent are important. Because they’ve seen what happens to kids when that gets forgotten. But Chris knows about him, and should in theory know all the reasons why that doesn’t apply. Sebastian can’t recall the last time his own yes or no would’ve made a difference. One’s as easy as the other, after long enough.

Looking at Chris in that second, he teeters on the brink of saying so. But he knows what those words would do to blue eyes. Chris cares so much. Too much. Too many cares, taking on everyone else’s atop his own. Chris would never forgive himself if he thought he’d pushed a caress on someone who didn’t understand consent. That wouldn’t be right--Sebastian understands consent as a concept, even if not one precisely relevant to his daily life--but Chris would think so.

He says, “I’m fine. _Sunt bine._ You’re fine as well. We’re okay.”

“Are we?” Chris is keeping the hands where he can see them. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” He pulls up both knees. Wraps arms around them. “We should finish the movie before I have to go.”

Chris sighs, but doesn’t say anything else. On the television screen, the cars learn the meaning of true friendship and loyalty and heroism. In the cozy messy real-life apartment, the hand doesn’t return to touch him. Sebastian wants to cry. This desire is perhaps the most horrifying aspect of the entire night thus far. Instead, he unloops one arm from his knees and curls it around Chris’s ankle, because maybe that’ll mean something, and maybe Chris’ll know what it means and can tell him.

Chris jumps but doesn’t pull away, only leans down to peer at his face. Sebastian pokes him in the calf. “Still here.”

“I didn’t even have to bribe you with chocolate. Seriously, though…”

Sebastian puts every bit of aristocratic hauteur he can summon into his voice. “In that case I may have to cease touching you. Never again.”

He has of course not let go. Chris grins. “Sorry, Your Highness.” This time Sebastian does glare, but only half-heartedly. “I still have knives, puppy.”

“So you keep saying,” Chris says, and then Sebastian’s phone buzzes loudly in his other jacket pocket, and they both jump. When he fishes it out, it’s displaying a text message.

From Nikolaj. In very irritable Romanian. Telling him to stop flirting with the American child and get off the floor and be on time to dinner, only with far more terseness and the occasional profanity.

Chris’s expression changes, watching him read. “Bad?”

“Only a reminder.” A reminder, and the movie’s over. He flips himself to his feet without using a hand; Chris appears impressed, and Sebastian tells himself not to care that Chris appears impressed. “I have to go. Keep an eye on her. Ibuprofen if you have any. Nothing stronger. With food. Your bananas should work.”

“Sebastian,” Chris says, and his name rings like tragic bells and the plea for hope behind a revolution, in that voice.

There’s no revolution in sight. No generals on white horses leading the charge. This isn’t his life, in this guitar-string and colored-pencil apartment, with mismatched chairs and a knitted blanket that he remembers once being wrapped around him. “I’ll come back when I can. If I can.”

“I’ll be here,” Chris promises, stupid and brave and full of conviction. “I’ll wait. Just show up when you can, I’ll stay up, I don’t care. I’ll be here.” I don’t care what you might’ve had to do or what you’re coming from, proclaims that tone. I’ll be here. Like a banner lifted in the dark.

It can’t be true. It _can’t_ be true. Chris has no idea what that promise entails. How sharp-toothed the monsters are beyond these walls.

However: it is only dinner. His father’d made that clear. He’s not going home with anyone. He’s free to go after providing some companionable company for the meal.

And if anyone does come close to knowing it might be Chris. Who volunteers the same place he does, who’s seen a fraction of what he’s seen.

“I can’t make you that promise,” he says, very carefully, “but I can promise to try.”

And Chris’s eyes soften and light up and-- Sebastian can’t even describe it. Not an expression he knows. “I might have hot chocolate somewhere. I mean, the powdered mix kind, you probably wouldn’t even like it, but if you want to. Try.”

“We can,” Sebastian suggests, feeling rather as if he’s stepping off a cliff, inching in the direction of his head bodyguard’s grimace, “try.” And he leaves on the glimpse of Chris’s grin, broad and happy and true as sugar.

Dinner is, of course, interminable.

Sebastian, having thrown on one of his better suits as instructed--this one black and sleek and form-fitting--and run a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to tame unruly fluff, grits his teeth. Hides behind his own smile.

The visiting Russians are partners, suppliers, associates. They laugh gregariously and carry steel concealed under clothing and behind ophidian eyes. The restaurant’s an expensive one, wood-paneled and lamplit, full of fine linen and rich wine. And all theirs for the night. No outsiders allowed. The chef had greeted them personally and nervously, when they’d come in. Sebastian’s father’s well-known.

His father also wishes to keep relation with the Russians amicable. To this end, Sebastian’s been seated beside a grossly corpulent man responsible for distributing bribes to over half the current Assembly officials in his homeland. The man also keeps putting a hand on his thigh and grinning. Sebastian thinks briefly of Chris, of Chris’ hand lying warm at the back of his neck, and then buries that thought beneath layers of iron and flippancy. No one gets to know about Chris. And Sebastian will do the job he’s here for.

He sets down his spoon. It’s in fact a very good solyanka, thick and spicy-sour and perfectly balanced between meat and broth. He’s just not hungry, and mentally apologizes to the soup for that, though it doesn’t seem to mind.

When he looks up, he makes certain his smile’s in place. Inquires how the man is liking New York, so far.

“It is an impressive city!” With arms thrown wide, and a shot of vodka spilling across the table. “We much enjoyed your Central Park this morning. We have plans to see an opera, of course. It is not true that all New Yorkers are rude. They have been very friendly. But your city is not Moscow.”

Well, yes, Sebastian thinks. Because it’s New York. He widens eyes guilelessly. “I’ve never been to Moscow.”

“Ah, it is beautiful, my city. Cold and cruel sometimes, but full of art. You would be at home there, I think. Among the art. You have never seen _Swan Lake_ until you have seen it danced in Moscow.” The hand pats his thigh again. “Perhaps I should take you home with me, little _tsarevich._ You enjoy music, I hear. You are skinny for Russian winters, but I could keep you warm.”

Sebastian’s father, at the head of the table, says icily, “He’d be too expensive for you.”

Sebastian, drunken Russian hand creeping higher on his leg, picks up the next vodka shot when it materializes in front of him, says, _“За нашу дружбу,”_ and tosses it back.

Sergei looks delighted. And covetous. “Our friendship, indeed. I did not know you spoke my language.”

“Only a few words.” Looking up through lowered eyelashes, innocent and sweet and flirtatious. Sebastian in fact speaks Russian decently well--not as fluid as his French or German, but enough to follow a conversation--but it’s generally best not to give these details away. People do tend to talk more freely when they assume the evening’s entertainment can’t listen in. “Certain words,” he elaborates. _“быстрее. снова. Хороший мальчик.”_ Faster. Again. Good boy.

Sergei’s practically salivating. Sebastian’s father says nothing. Steak arrives, rare and red and worth more than the cost of running the school’s air-conditioning in summer. It sits there and sizzles. Sebastian regards it dispassionately. It shrugs back: eat me, or don’t. You may regret the vodka if you don’t.

He picks up his water, instead.

“I do like you.” Sergei’s beaming at him. “Are you certain you might not be available, later tonight? We could discuss art. Opera. Beautiful music, together.”

“You still can’t afford me.” Sebastian aims for playful. Enticing. Tempting. “Also, I believe you are married. Though I do enjoy...opera.”

“Ah, well…” With a glance down the table. “Maybe not, then. Maybe some negotiation first. Business before pleasure. Are you not eating? Here.”

Sebastian has a momentary absurd flashback: Chris coming in with sandwiches, peanut butter and honey, knitted blankets and Elvis songs…

It’s an infinity away from this cut-crystal and gold-rimmed restaurant. He suffers himself to be hand-fed bites of steak from Sergei’s fork. “And would we have frequent excursions to the opera, then? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“Of course...every season, yes. I go to all opening nights. My wife does not. She prefers the country. She is not such good company as you, _tsarevich._ She tends to throw things, very large things, at my head.”

Sebastian files this tidbit away--his father hadn’t known about Sergei’s marital woes, and while that may or may not be directly related to political machinations and side-stepping of import laws, it’s still something new--and murmurs sympathetic platitudes. Inside, he’s thinking of Chris, of blue eyes, of Amber, of the crash after the first intoxicating high. He promised to come back.

No. He promised to try.

The meal winds on. Multiple courses, exquisitely balanced conversations, progressively louder vodka-infused toasts. By the end, Sebastian’s fairly sure his father’s negotiated a greater pipeline for certain mind-altering substances and also gotten the Russians to agree to provide security, meaning that if anything goes wrong, it’s on their heads. He’s equally sure they don’t quite understand how much responsibility they’ve agreed to take on. He’s also learned more than he ever wanted to know about why Sergei believes Mussorgsky’s _Boris Godunov_ is superior to Borodin’s _Prince Igor._ Under other circumstances, this last might even be interesting; he’s not as good on Russian composers as he could be, and Sergei talks about performances and arias and librettos with the vocabulary of a true connoisseur. The vodka isn’t helpful at all, though it does make the moment when Sergei stops being subtle and puts an arm around his waist a bit more tolerable.

His father catches his eye. Disapproval. Naturally. Sebastian smiles as charmingly as possible and gets Sergei to brag about knowing the President’s secretary’s weakness for gambling.

It’s what he can do. It’s what he’s good for. His father chose to use him this way; the man doesn’t get to disapprove now, belatedly. Certainly not when the information’s useful.

Ten-thirty. Eleven. Close to midnight. Whiskey-soaked tiramisu and more vodka. Sebastian attempts to unobtrusively knock one or two shots off the table with an elbow. Even he can only drink so much. He’s already past buzzed, and his head feels fuzzy. And he needs to be at least some semblance of okay. For Chris. Because he promised.

He clings to the promise, under the infernal halo of the restaurant’s lights.

Twelve-twenty, and they’re done, murmuring good-byes, stumbling back to waiting towncars, into the night. The city lights gleam and blur; Sebastian spots his father glancing his way as Sergei kisses him farewell. It’s not precisely a friendly kiss. Too much tongue. Too much hand slipping down to grope between his legs at an angle where his father won’t see. He kisses back, because, well, why not. Wouldn’t want to offend the business partners. Not now.

He doesn’t go home with Sergei. With any of them.

His father nods once, though whether that’s approval or simple acknowledgement--Sebastian’s done as ordered, as expected--it's impossible to tell, and says with no discernible emotion, “Once you are sober, I expect you to tell me everything you’ve learned, that you can remember,” and gets into his car.

Sebastian refuses to let any emotion out on his side either, only nods, and once the car’s out of sight ducks around the corner into the closest alleyway and lets his legs give way. This is perhaps seventy-five percent the fault of the vodka and the rest due to the phantom sensation of that hand between his legs; he’s afraid he’s going to throw up or pass out, and he’s not terribly proud of either.

A hand taps his shoulder. Oh. Nikolaj. Excellent. “If you are planning to be ill,” his head bodyguard advises, “do it here. Not in my car.”

“Fuck off,” Sebastian says, too tired everywhere, in every possible way, to be more creative. The world’s spinning, unless that’s his head, and he’s probably ruining his once-expensive suit by sitting on the grimy pavement but he doesn’t give a damn.

Nikolaj sighs. Holds out an unopened water-bottle. “Drink.” Sebastian contemplates this unanticipated kindness, mentally shrugs and feels sorry for whichever waiter or random passerby his security’s intimidated into handing over his water, and accepts it.

“If you would like to remove yourself from the ground,” Nikolaj says, “we can be home in ten minutes, at this time of night.”

“No.”

“You are an idiot. Also quite drunk.”

“I know.” He pushes himself back upright with the aid of the building. It’s a nice building. Very vertical. Vertical is good. It can help him with that. “I did promise. I have to--I won’t stay. I just need to…”

Nikolaj makes an exasperated noise and takes the place of the building, getting him to walk, which is a marvelous idea, because buildings can’t walk. Sebastian finishes off the water. Says, because he is exactly the idiot his bodyguard believes him to be, “He won’t have stayed up for me. I know. He won’t--I just--I’ll leave a note or something. So he knows I did come back. I promised.”

Nikolaj stops walking. “Sebastian. _Alteță._ You _are_ an idiot. _Băiat prost._ Stupid boy. You think he won’t be counting every minute you don’t walk through that door?”

There are too many double negatives in that sentence to process after the seas of vodka. Sebastian blinks. Nikolaj briefly separates into two people, then recombines in a haze of light. “I might throw up in your car after all,” he says, and Nikolaj grumbles something unintelligible about babysitting ridiculous children who can’t see what’s in front of their faces, and then plops him into the backseat but also puts a blanket on his shoulders, which is scratchy and confusing and most importantly doesn’t remind him of sweaty Russian hands fondling his body.

They drive. Sebastian rests his throbbing head against the cool glass of the window. New York City streams by in flickering midnight lights, coruscating streaks of neon and shadow. Secrets and brilliance. Cruel radiance and kind black-velvet silences. He doesn’t fall asleep, just drifting.

Back to Chris’ apartment, up the stairs with the peeling paint on the wall, past Rosa’s door--closed, this time of night; Sebastian hopes someone gave back the hot water bottle, but Chris would’ve, Chris thinks of things like that--and he’s managed to not throw up and to cope with stairs, and he’s feeling a bit better, cold night air brisk as water on his face. He doesn’t want to contemplate what he looks like, suit smudged from dirt and vodka and greedy hands; but he’s weary enough to not care. He can slip in, can see Chris sleeping, can leave a note-- _I’m alive, I’m breathing_ \--and slip back out. Chris can go on dreaming, and Sebastian can know that this piece of the world’s continuing on, protected and snoring in bed.

He’s normally good at picking locks, but he doesn’t have to; Nikolaj has Chris’ spare key, and he should probably remember when that happened, but he can’t come up with it right now. Doesn’t matter, anyway; the door swings open the second the key scrapes the lock.

Chris. On the other side, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed as if he’s been thinking about needing to go someplace at a moment’s notice, eyes anxious. “Oh thank God--”

“Oh,” Sebastian says, because he just can’t think of anything else, “Chris.”

And Chris holds out arms, and Sebastian takes a step forward even though he shouldn’t, but he’s very tired and very drunk and he wants hands that he _wants_ on him, so he can end the night remembering that--

Chris wraps strong arms around him. Holds him. Breathes. As if he doesn’t care that Sebastian’s rumpled and dirty and coming from someone else’s touch. As if he’s been afraid, and now he’s not, because Sebastian’s here.

They end up on the sofa, holding each other. Amber’s gone, though the blanket’s there, and the television’s on, playing old cartoons Sebastian doesn’t recognize. He looks up; Chris gets the question instantly, and says, “She’s fine, I walked her home, I told her mom she was sick--I don’t think her mom cared, as long as she’s quiet, which--anyway I told her to call me if she needs a place to go. I think she might. I think she listened to you, too. About the drugs.”

“Good.”

“She said she was sorry about calling you pretty. Before. Well, she said you _are_ pretty, but she didn’t mean it like that.” Chris’ tone suggests that there was more to this conversation. Sebastian’s not surprised. He’d no doubt talk about himself too, if he’d just discovered the knives and underworld associations for the first time. He doesn’t say anything; Chris goes on, softly, “She wanted to stay longer. To be here when you got back. But--we didn’t know…”

“No. I wouldn’t--it’s not as if I knew.” He closes his eyes. “Didn’t you promise me hot chocolate?”

“Yeah, about that.” Chris strokes his hair. That feels good, more than it ought to. “So one of your other ninja minions turned up about half an hour after you left. Brought, like, fifty kinds of chocolate. And milk. And cinnamon. Did you send him?”

“What? No.” He opens his eyes. Looks around for Nikolaj. His head bodyguard’s poking at Chris’ door locks with a dissatisfied expression, and refuses to turn around. “I hope you made him taste-test it all.”

Chris’ eyes get huge. Disbelieving saucers. “Oh God. That’s not--I mean, you’re not serious, right? Because I didn’t--I didn’t even think--”

“You need to.” He doesn’t miss the way Nikolaj’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. His security detail knows something about this, then, which likely means it’s all safe, but still. Chris needs to understand. “I do carry knives. And food is a good way to poison someone’s son, _da?_ I doubt my father’d cry, mind you, but he’d be annoyed at losing me to something so obvious.”

Chris actually puts a hand over his mouth. Through fingers, protests, “You can’t live like that--”

“That’s part of how I remain alive, in fact.” He sighs. The intoxication’s present but fading, leaving behind the inevitable headache. “And I would prefer you to also remain so. Just be careful. You are a target, now, by association. You have to know that.”

Chris sighs, too. But keeps the other arm around his shoulders. Even tighter. “I’m not sure I’m ever gonna get used to this.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” Broken, bitter, despairingly sick in the face of not-yet-sobriety; but not directed at Chris. At his own heart, wanting Chris to have wanted to get used to this. Stupid boy, he thinks. It’s true. “I’ll leave you alone. But--let me leave you a bodyguard. Or two. For a week. A few weeks. Until everyone thinks you’re done with me. You won’t see them, you won’t know they’re around, I swear.”

“Wait,” Chris says, “I didn’t say I wanted to be done with you, I never said that, we talked about this, about me making my own decisions, so stop trying to treat me like I’m a damsel in distress and let me hold you, and maybe yes about the bodyguard thing, but not yes to you leaving me alone, okay?”

“...I don’t think of you as a damsel in distress,” Sebastian says, truthful and exhausted and indignant and oddly weightlessly relieved, and something else too, something he doesn’t want to examine too closely in case it turns out to be a feeling he can’t give up. “Too much facial hair to be a damsel. Also I would be a terrible knight in shining armor, we discussed this, you recall.”

“I don’t know,” Chris says, and rubs his back through the wrinkled suit-layers. “I think you’re doin’ okay.”

“Thank you for the ringing endorsement of my adequacy.”

“You know what I mean. And--are you? Okay? Tonight? You don’t have to tell me, I’m not asking for details, I just. Want to know. If I should be going after dragons on your behalf.”

“Well,” Sebastian murmurs, “I’m not in Moscow, so things could be worse,” and then has to explain, which takes them through two mugs of creamy hot chocolate and Chris’ arm around his shoulders again. The hot chocolate warms him from the inside, thick and comforting and full of rich dark flavors and liquid sweetness. Chris’ arm warms him from the outside, or maybe that’s the inside too.

“Can you stay?” Chris asks softly when he finishes, when they’ve been sitting together in the hush of lamplight and the glow of the muted television screen without speaking for a while, Sebastian breathing in lingering cocoa-scents and a hint of fabric softener from Chris’ shirt, from Chris’ arm around his shoulders again. “I mean, I know you probably can’t, but--it’s already, like, two-thirty, and if you need to sleep anyway…”

“No,” Nikolaj snaps from his glowering-hawk position of choice near the window. “Not a secure location. Not at _all.”_

“Then it’s not secure for Chris either,” Sebastian points out, which is thoroughly reckless and no doubt unfair to his bodyguards, but he doesn’t care. He wants this, he wants this, just once. Just enough of Chris’ strength to get him through the next day.

It’s entirely possible he’s inadvertently become an addict after all. Not drugs. The heat of Chris’ skin and the taste of chocolate and the scent of clean laundry. He adds in Romanian, “Consider it a challenge,” and Nikolaj scowls.

“Are you two insulting me again?” Chris inquires, and Nikolaj says at the same time, “You have to see your father in the morning,” to which Sebastian makes a very rude gesture even though he knows it’s true. He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to _think._ He wants to stay here forever, in this space where maybe he’s done something good, where he and Chris have done something good, where they’ve kept one girl safe for one night at least.

“Leave whenever you want,” Chris says, “that’s up to you, when you want to go or stay,” and his eyes are sincere: he means it, means the choice.

“I do have to leave in the morning.” He sets down the now-empty hot-chocolate mug. “I should--well. I shouldn’t stay.”

“But you want to.”

“I do. Yes.”

 _“Such_ a terrible idea,” Nikolaj mutters.

“Tell me,” Chris says, voice quiet and generous and serious, “how you want to do this. If you want the bed, if you want me to sleep out here, I can do that, however you’re comfortable--” and every unspoken fear that Chris has had throughout the evening’s there in those words.

“Haven’t we already shared your bed once? More or less.” He looks at one arm, a bit helplessly. Somehow the wrinkles and dirt and dried vodka splashes across the sleeve of his expensive suit seem like a perfect metaphor for his life, which is maybe a being very drunk kind of thought, but not necessarily inaccurate. “I may have to trouble you yet again for clothes.”

Chris looks relieved by this response. No doubt imagining worse; no doubt remembering worse; no doubt remembering bruises and soreness and more. The relief turns into something strangely like excitement, after a second, and then back into concern, as if Chris is ordering his emotions into proper behavior. “I can find you pyjama pants? And maybe a shirt? Oh God I hope I’ve got clean shirts, oh God I said that out loud.”

Sebastian has to smile. Because Chris is...Chris. And will always be so, in the face of every obstacle the world can throw.

He trails Chris into the bedroom, and waits while large flustered hands unearth plaid pyjama pants and a high-school drama-club t-shirt--”my sister teaches there! it was a fundraiser thing! I bought, like, three!”--and almost tells Chris it’s fine to stay while he changes but blue eyes’re already considerately backing out the door. Sebastian, watching the door close, discovers a tiny hiccup of laughter caught in his throat. Chris being Chris, supporting his sister’s students, giving respectful distance to a mob kingpin’s shared-plaything son. Chris even means it. Would do the same for anyone in need.

He opens the door. Tries not to be selfish about that thought: Chris would do the same for anyone. It’s only Sebastian’s heart and a lot of vodka wanting Chris to be a refuge for _him._

Chris has evidently changed clothes in the bathroom. Sebastian’s heart, continuing to misbehave, is sadly disappointed by this. Chris is beautiful, those muscles and that slim waist and a hint of tantalizing tattoo-ink showing on biceps, along his collarbone; Sebastian wants to touch it, to skim fingers over decorated skin, to learn how all those muscles feel aligned with his own. The way they’d played music together, the way Chris has held him, the way he’d looked up from the floor and found Chris looking at him.

He puts on a smile because Chris is looking a little unsure. “Changing your mind? I promise I have not brought a knife to bed as company.”

Nikolaj materializes out of nowhere and throws one his direction, not too hard but hard enough to make the very literal _stupid boy_ point. Sebastian, even somewhat intoxicated and distracted by Chris’ biceps, has the reflexes to catch it, which makes his bodyguard look ever so slightly happier, unless that’s a grimace.

Chris opens his mouth, closes it, and finally says, “Whatever you want, but maybe try not to stab me if I kick you?”

Sebastian drops the knife on the bedside table beside Chris’ alarm clock. Sits down. “Honestly? I’m tired enough that I likely won’t notice. Kick me all you like. I may steal your blankets in retaliation.”

Chris laughs. And they slide into bed, under the blue cotton sheets Sebastian remembers from before, in the bedroom with a heap of uncleaned laundry in one corner and guitar sheet music atop the dresser and the open window letting night breezes meander in. Chris is giving him space, so they’re not quite touching. But he can feel the warmth beside him, strong muscles and kindness and apprehension, and that’s almost like touching, quivering in the air between his arm and Chris’ skin.

He inches a foot closer. Still not touching. Just finding an anchor in the unfamiliar shapes of the bedroom’s dark.

Chris whispers, “Sebastian?”

“Hmm?”

“Still awake?”

“Obviously.”

“Oh...right, yeah...oh, um, if you need aspirin or something it’s in the other room, sorry…”

“I believe I’ll survive.”

“..that wasn’t what I was going to say. You, um. You know Amber said you were pretty, and you looked--”

“We’ve talked about this,” Sebastian says, chest aching, head aching. “She didn’t mean it, you said. Go to sleep.”

“I mean,” Chris says a bit desperately, “she’s not wrong, I mean not like that, I mean I don’t just think you’re pretty, you know that, you know I think you’re--amazing, you being here, you’re like the strongest person I--but I’m trying to say I kind of do think you’re sort of gorgeous?”

Sebastian needs a second, given the alcohol and the qualifiers and English syntax issues, to sort this sentence out. And then he rolls over, and Chris is closer than he’d thought, so they end up face to face in the center of the bed. “Only sort of?”

Chris winces, starts to groan, and then pauses. “That’s a joke, right?”

“Yes,” Sebastian says, wanting to laugh, wanting to fall asleep in those strong arms and not have to awaken and face reality ever again, “that is a joke, and I may conceivably think you are sort of gorgeous as well.”

“Even drunk you’re winning the vocabulary wars,” Chris says, sounding like he wants to laugh as well, sounding like all the emotions Sebastian can feel in his own stomach, “conceivably, hell. Can I hold you, please say yes, if you want to, only if you want to, just that, for tonight, please.”

It is a dreadful idea. It is a dreadful wonderful glowing idea. It’s a dream that can only happen in the secret greys and violets of night, one night, in Chris’ room.

Because it’s a dream anyway, Sebastian says, “Yes, you can, I would--like that.” And feels Chris’ arms fold around him, feels Chris stick a foot between his ankles, feels lips--after a breathless moment--brush across his hair.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember any dreams. He wakes to Nikolaj touching his shoulder and a low-voiced admonition about being on time. When he slips out of bed, Chris stirs and mumbles, “Sebastian,” in a plaintive tone that shouldn’t make him want to drop his left shoe back on the floor and hop back under covers. He can’t do that. He can’t.

He does give in to the impulse to sit down on the side of the bed. One of Chris’ sleepy hands finds his. “Too early.”

“I know.”

Chris wakes up a little more, tousled hair and sleep-lines across one cheek from his pillowcase. “I can’t say don’t go, can I…”

“No. I’m sorry.”

Chris sighs. They’re holding hands. Fingers entwined against the opalescent morning chill. “Can I see you for lunch?”

“What...like...a date? Is this a habit with you? Wanting to take me places and feed me? Old books, here at your place...is this because we’ve slept together?”

“That’s not a no.” Chris yawns. Sebastian’s heart performs swooping fond acrobatics. “And I like sleeping with you. Call me when you feel like pizza?”

“And what if I’m busy all day,” Sebastian says, but without any force behind it. Chris yawns again and announces, as if it’s already decided, “Then I’ll wait until you’re not,” and promptly goes back to sleep, fingers firmly woven into Sebastian’s.

“Of course you will,” Sebastian says to the fingers, to Chris, to his heart, even as he detaches himself. “You would. I...will try. This afternoon.” And then, because Chris is asleep and won’t know, “and I like sleeping with you too.”

He’s halfway out the bedroom door, closing it behind him and listening to Nikolaj grumble darkly about security and new locks, when he hears Chris call drowsily, “...I heard that. You said it.”

“Go back to sleep,” Sebastian calls back, and walks out of Chris’ apartment into the morning with a smile he can’t quite help on his face. It won’t last, not with the meeting to come, not under his father’s scrutiny. He’s certain his father’s been informed that he chose not to spend the night at home. He’s certain this will be, as ever, a choice met with disgust or disapproval or disdain.

But the sky’s cool and grey as lavender and untroubled. The air’s clear as dew, the city only barely waking up, shaking off slumber into potential. He’s left Chris happy. And he feels like perhaps he can breathe, for the first time in a very long time. By the afternoon, he might even, he thinks, feel like pizza.

 

Chris wakes up a little startled from a surprisingly deep sleep, curled on his side in his bed. He sits up, rubbing a hand over his face, and blinks down at himself when he realizes he’s not sprawled proprietarily across the bed as he customarily does but rather more towards the side.

It takes him a second to remember why, and then he’s grinning, remembering Sebastian in his bed, in his arms, sleeping with his face turned toward Chris, a hand on Chris’ arm. He remembers waking up at some point in the night, disoriented, and lifting his head to find Nikolaj in the doorway, checking in on Sebastian.

Sebastian had curled on his side, away from Chris, and Chris’ nose was buried in the hair at the back of Sebastian’s neck, curling damply and fragrant with expensive shampoo.

Now Chris is alone in the bed, still warm under the blankets, and he can’t stop grinning. He had almost lost hope of Sebastian coming back last night, it had gotten so damn late. But he’d refused to go to bed, terrified that the moment he did Sebastian would come knocking and Chris wouldn’t hear him. So he’d camped out in the couch and hoped for the best, struggled earnestly to not count every minute Sebastian was gone doing--doing God knows what, in somebody else’s name, for someone else’s gain and pleasure.

It makes him so damn _angry,_ too. And he wishes there was any way he could let Sebastian know how wrong it all is, how fucking sick it is for someone else, whoever that is, even his father, to use him like this. But Chris knows that Sebastian isn’t there yet; isn’t in a headspace where he can easily differentiate between what he does and who he is, and if Chris tells him that what he’s being made to do is bad… then Sebastian will think Chris is upset with _him,_ not with his father.

Sebastian’s father. The head of the Romanian mob in New York. Fuck.

There’s a knock in the front door. Chris flinches. He realizes with a start that that’s what woke him up in the first place, another knock.

Could Sebastian be back? Heart kicking up with the idea, he scrambles out of the bed, throwing the covers aside and shoving a careless hand through his crazy bed hair, always a rather memorable character in the mornings, he’s aware.

He throws the door open, already smiling.

Nikolaj stares at him from the hallway, distinctly unimpressed.

“You did not even check the peephole,” he accuses testily.

“Uh,” Chris says intelligently, and then frowns. “Sebastian’s not with you?”

“Yes, I’m keeping him under my coat,” Nikolaj replies, and gestures at him to move so he can step into the apartment. Chris does, still a little confused, and watches in bemusement as a young woman comes in after Nikolaj, carrying a heavy-looking metal toolbox with her and wearing overalls that suggest she means business.

“Um?” Chris tries, wondering if Nikolaj will make faces at him for asking the obvious question.

Nikolaj does. “This is Alana,” he says, sounding long suffering and put upon, like he doesn’t deserve what he gets, which is all in all rather debatable considering his life choices.

“She exists, then,” Chris says, relieved, and offers her a tentative smile. She looks at him like he’s completely insane.

“Yes,” says Nikolaj slowly, eyeing him like he’s reconsidering Chris’ sanity, himself. “Well, insofar as we all exist, if you consider life is but a dream within a dream.”

It’s clear by his tone that this is said with a certain amount of derision and mockery, plainly meant to insult Chris’ apparently dubious grasp of reality, but Chris blinks at him blankly.

“You don’t know what that means,” Nikolaj despairs.

“I didn’t go to college,” Chris reminds him, not offended. “So, um, why Alana?” he asks, somewhat ungrammatically.

“She’s a locksmith,” Nikolaj answers, just as Alana sets down her toolbox and pulls open the front door of Chris’ apartment, leaning in close to squint at the lock.

“My lock is fine,” Chris says, baffled.

“It’s not,” retorts Nikolaj.

“It’s really not,” adds Alana helpfully.

“It… locks,” Chris defends himself, and finds halfway through the thought that it’s not as firm a defense as he’d like, in the face of Nikolaj’s open derision and Alana’s unselfconscious disbelief. “Well, no one’s ever broken into my apartment so far, so obviously it works.”

“No one had a reason to break into this place before now,” Nikolaj says pointedly, looking around Chris’ small, cluttered little living room with obvious judgment.

“Hey now,” Chris warns mildly.

“Do you want me to allow Sebastian to continue coming here?” Nikolaj asks, point-blank.

“Yes,” Chris answers immediately.

“Then this,” the bodyguard gestures peremptorily at the lock on Chris’ door. “Is not acceptable. Nor are your window locks, which we’re changing next.”

Chris opens his mouth to argue, and then immediately abandons the attempt. He’s not going to be able to sway Nikolaj, he can tell. And even if he could, if the price is that Sebastian would not be allowed to come to this apartment because it would not be a safe location, then Chris knows he’s not willing to pay that one.

So what he says is, “Can I offer you both coffee?”

“Real coffee?” Alana asks suspiciously. “Or instantaneous dirt coffee?”

Chris gapes at her for a moment, speechless, and then manages to shut his mouth. “Tea?” he offers, rather diplomatically, he thinks.

“Tea is fine,” Nikolaj says like he regrets his life, all of it, every single moment.

Chris busies himself putting the kettle on now, and then goes to his bedroom to change into jeans and a t-shirt, more presentable than his old, thin-worn flannel pajama bottoms and tank top.

While Alana works on upgrading the security to Chris’ apartment, Chris studiously attempts not to let Nikolaj’s sharp eyes notice how nervous he is, restless with excitement. He feels like a high school kid waiting for his crush to show any indication that the attraction is returned, although, to be fair he thinks--he thinks Sebastian _is_ attracted and that he’s even gone so far as to allow himself to show it to Chris. A bud of heat and thrill blooms in Chris’ stomach at the thought.

He remembers the curve of Sebastian’s shoulders beneath his arm as they sat on the couch side by side, sipping hot chocolate and talking about--about hideous horrible things, about some man’s hands, unwelcome on Sebastian’s thighs but allowed to linger.

Chris glances at Nikolaj now, at that thought. Finds the bodyguard thumbing absently through one of his sketchbooks, mouth gone soft and pensive. Nikolaj must sense him looking, because his eyes dart up, one brow arching.

“Are these private?” he asks, gesturing at the sketchbook in his hand.

“A bit late to ask,” Chris points out. “I don’t mind. Nothing to hide.”

Nikolaj’s eyes glimmer with amusement, and he turns the pad around to show Chris a sketch of Sebastian, sitting to the piano, hands undrawn. Chris feels heat climb up his neck and cheeks.

“Perhaps you ought to start,” Nikolaj suggests, closing the pad with a dexterous flick of a wrist and returning it to the coffee table.

“If you don’t mind me asking, aren’t you supposed to be with Sebastian?”

Nikolaj eyes him dubiously, like he’s considering refusing to answer, but shakes his head. “I’m off duty. Even bodyguards get days off. He’s with someone else today and tomorrow.”

“This is you on your day off?” Chris blurts, looking at what Nikolaj is wearing, which is fitted dark jeans, combat boots, a dark wool red sweater and a shoulder holster under the heavy tweed coat.

“I’m not taking clothes critique from someone who wears baseballs caps on backwards,” Nikolaj says mildly.

Chris’ hand flies up to his head. “My hair is difficult to control,” he says sheepishly.

Nikolaj hums in a vague way that suggests he’s judging everything Chris is and does.

“Do you think he’ll call?” Chris asks quietly.

Nikolaj looks at him for a long moment, speculative, and finally shrugs. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. It depends on what mood he leaves his father in.”

Chris nods, though he can’t say he understands what sort of relationship could exist between a man and his son that would allow that man to live comfortably with the knowledge that he is throwing his son to the wolves every day and every night for his own gain.

“He knows,” Nikolaj says quietly, and Chris feels a chill climb up his spine. “Marcus.” From context, this must be Sebastian’s father; Chris nods again, and Nikolaj adds, “And he’s not best pleased about it.”

Chris swallows down his anger. “Will he tell Sebastian to--to stop?” Nikolaj nods. “And will he?”

Nikolaj exhales. “I don’t know, Christopher. I really don’t.”

“I’m done,” Alana announces, closing his toolbox with a snap and standing up. Nikolaj reaches down and takes the box, gesturing for Alana to go ahead of him out the door. He throws the new keys in Chris’ direction, and Chris catches them easily, mid-air.

Then Chris is alone in the apartment with three empty tea cups. It’s early morning. He told Sebastian to call him at any time, and he doesn’t want to push or press him, so he can’t call him and ask him if he’s doing okay, if his head aches still.

He can’t linger staring at his cell phone all morning, either. So he busies himself tidying up the apartment, cleaning, acquainting himself with the new locks on door and windows, all sturdy, expensive, and heavy-duty looking. He eventually sits down and forces himself to work on sketches and do some actual work for his uncle, maybe even get some orders worked out ahead of time to clear his schedule a bit for the weekend. Just in case--just in case. You never know.

He’s so successfully immersed himself in work that the phone startles him into dropping his pencil when it finally does ring around noon. He scrambles awkwardly on the couch to snatch it up, grateful that no one’s watching his ungainly motions.

“Hey, are you okay?” Chris asks at once.

Sebastian sighs. “It will get very tiresome if you answer the phone like that all the time.”

Chris exhales a short huff of amusement, leaning back on the couch. “I’ll take that as a yes. And in time for lunch, too. Are you free, then? Can we get that pizza?”

Sebastian seems to hesitate for a moment. Chris feels his chest tighten with worry, and he sits up, already breathing in to argue against Sebastian singlehandedly deciding Chris is better off without him.

“Yes,” says Sebastian, and Chris’ words die in his throat, drowned out by a buzz of relief so strong he slumps back. “So long as you promise not to put any strange fruits on it.”

“Fruit on pizza?” Chris asks, offended. “This is not Hawaii, who do you take me for? The only fruit allowed on my pizza is tomato, thanks.”

Sebastian is quiet for a moment. “Tomato is a vegetable, surely?” he asks dubiously.

“No,” says Chris decisively. “No it is not.”

Sebastian makes an inquisitive European noise in the back of his throat, a breed between a thoughtful hum and a curious one. “Is this perhaps one of those odd American fixations no one can rationally explain to me?”

“No, it’s simple biology--wait, like what? What sort of fixations? And also, are you coming over, or are we meeting somewhere?”

“Like baseball,” says Sebastian, accompanied by the sound of a car door opening, and then closing.

“I’m going to let that slide,” Chris says magnanimously.

“That’s very generous of you, I’m sure,” Sebastian says, and Chris can tell by his tone that he’s smiling. “And--let’s meet at the school. The roof.”

Chris snorts. “You just want to nap on the couch.”

“It’s a very good couch for napping,” Sebastian says, admitting to nothing. “No anchovies on the pizza, please. I don’t like food that looks like it did when it lived.”

“I think that’s insulting,” Chris says, rising from the couch to go to his room and put shoes on. “I bet anchovies look a lot more chipper when they’re alive. A lot less, you know, vacant.”

“You had fish as a child,” Sebastian guesses, sounding amused.

“A goldfish,” Chris admits with dignity. “Its name was Skippy.”

Sebastian laughs out loud, a genuine, startling sound. Chris grins.

“Skippy the goldfish,” Sebastian says, and laughs some more. “And was Skippy a boy fish or a girl fish?”

Uh. Sebastian obviously intuits the nature of the suspicious silence, because he laughs some more.

“Genderqueer,” Chris says firmly. Sebastian laughs harder. “It’s hard to tell, okay! Anyway, Skippy had a bright but brief life. I never had a chance to investigate. Meet you in an hour at the roof?”

“Yes. I’m going home to change. See you then.”

Chris goes to his favorite pizza place and orders a big pizza with no anchovies or fruit on it. He considers buying a six pack of beer bottles, but decides against it. Sebastian was drunk last night, and although it seems unlikely three measly beer bottles could get him drunk again, it would make sense to suspect he won’t be feeling in the mood to consume more alcohol. He buys sodas instead.

It’s a nice day out; the sun is shining, and Sebastian is meeting him in the roof of the school they volunteer in to help kids like Amber. It’s going to be a _good_ day.

Sebastian joins him on the roof, ten minutes after Chris arrives himself, via the fire escape ladder.

“I left the door open,” Chris tells him, blinking at him.

“I need to sneak around a bit some time, or else I’ll lose my touch,” Sebastian says easily, flopping on the couch next to where Chris is sitting sprawled on the cushions with an open bottle of soda.

Sebastian reaches forward and snatches the bottle, disdaining the straw to drink directly from the mouth. Chris stares at his lips around the bottle and then makes himself glance away, heat climbing up his spine.

“Lose your touch at being a criminal?” he asks, a little belatedly.

“I haven’t B&E’d in a while,” Sebastian muses, licking his lips to catch a stray drop of soda. “Not that I need it for your place, mind. I have keys.”

“B and--oh, breaking and entering. You juvenile delinquent, you. Nikolaj came by this morning and bullied me into changing all the locks, though, so that key might be outdated.”

“I met him downstairs,” Sebastian informs him. “Is there any food or did you lure me here with false pretenses?”

“To presumably do what?” wonders Chris, and reaches over the arm of the couch to bring the pizza up from the tiles of the floor, heated by the sun. “No anchovies or strawberries, promise.”

“Strawberries,” Sebastian grumbles in disgust, and gladly picks up a piece, which he bites immediately. He seems famished. Chris sits back on the couch with his own slice, eating more sedately, and steals back his bottle of soda. When Sebastian pouts theatrically at him, he nudges the six-pack closer to him and gestures with his chin.

They eat pizza and sip soda for a long moment, in companionable, comfortable silence. Sebastian shifts sideways on the couch and leans his head against the armrest, throwing a long, lean thigh over Chris’ lap. Chris obligingly spreads his legs so Sebastian’s calf dangles between them, the inside of Sebastian’s knee snug against the top of Chris’ thigh.

Sebastian digs a pair of sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and slides them on, smirking at Chris and his squint.

“I don’t suppose you thought of dessert,” Sebastian says lazily.

Chris blinks. “Damn. I knew I’d forget something.”

“How sad,” Sebastian says, sprawling on the couch like a Victorian lady having a fainting episode, emitting a long, low keening sound of profound despair. “You take me out on a date to eat cheap food in a cheap place with old musty furniture--”

“You chose the place,” Chris protests mildly.

“--and you don’t even get me something sweet to eat as dessert. _Sunt rănit._ I’m hurt. I’m not a cheap date, you know. In fact, I have it on good authority people have paid several thousand--”

“We could get ice cream,” Chris rushes to cut in, extremely reluctant to find out just how much money someone might need to surrender in order to get Sebastian on his knees. It doesn’t matter, in the long run, how much money is paid; whatever way Chris looks at it, it’s wrong and horrible because Sebastian doesn’t want it. But Chris thinks he’ll sleep somewhat better if he never finds out just how much Sebastian’s father profits from Sebastian’s body.

“Ice cream,” Sebastian muses. “ _Da._ Let’s.”

He stands up decisively, twisting his torso to give himself impulse, and as he does his boot presses differently against Chris’ thigh. he can feel the hard bulge of something inside it, snug against Sebastian’s ankle.

A knife.

He swallows around the knot and stands up, pulling on his jacket.

“Ah ah ah,” he calls when Sebastian heads toward the fire escape. “We’re taking the stairs like civilized people, thank you.”

“Civilized is boring,” Sebastian complains, but lets Chris catch him by the arm and turn him around to face the door.

“I’m sure you’ll get some other chance to hone your criminal skills,” Chris says in the way of soothing a disgruntled child, and pulls the door open for Sebastian, who gives him a haughty look and precedes him into the stairwell.

Sebastian stops, though, at the top of the stairs, and half turns around to look at Chris out of the corner of his eye. Chris arches his brows, and waits.

“Father said,” Sebastian starts, and Chris feels a chill down his spine. “He said that I should cut you loose. That it’ll end badly. _Tragedie._ In tragedy.”

Chris grits his teeth. “He doesn’t know that.”

Sebastian’s head tilts briefly to the side, as if the question of whether his father can or cannot see the future is of an academic nature.

“But I thought,” Sebastian says carefully. “That I should bring it up. And tell you. That’s he’s probably right. Me, being with you, is… _nesocotit._ Indiscreet.”

“We talked about this,” Chris says patiently. He reaches out and takes Sebastian’s hand in his, squeezing.

“So we did,” Sebastian sighs. His fingers tighten on Chris’, and he brings their hands up and presses a chaste, gentle kiss to the back of Chris’ hand. It’s barely a brush of lips, dry and innocent, but heat rises in Chris’ stomach, unfurling across his chest like a sail on strong winds.

Chris exhales through it, searching for peace and patience. Sebastian doesn’t need him to make any sort of moves in that direction right now; might in fact need anything but that. The last thing Chris wants is to show even the slightest hint that that’s what he wants from Sebastian. It’s not.

Well--it’s not only. Maybe further down the line…a lot further down the line.

“Ice cream, then,” Sebastian says, pulling him along behind him on the stairs, never releasing his hand. “I still maintain the fire escape would be much faster.”

“The ice cream will be waiting for us, I have faith,” Chris laughs.

Sebastian hums, that eloquent sound of his that conveys both vague agreement and clear dubiousness. That has to be a European thing; Chris doesn’t think he could begin to understand how to pull that off. He’d probably hurt his throat.

They go down the stairs to the first floor. Just as they reach the door, Sebastian stops abruptly, so suddenly that Chris smacks into his back. Sebastian makes a disgruntled noise and elbows him, albeit gently, in the stomach.

“You’re the one that stopped without warning,” Chris complains, mock-sore.

Sebastian shushes him, throwing him a quick glance over his shoulder. Chris goes quiet, surprised. It takes him a moment to hear. It’s Anthony’s voice, nearby, probably close to the stairwell door on the first floor. Sebastian is very still, obviously listening, and Chris goes just as still almost like that rapt attention is infectious.

Then he huffs. “Why are we sneaking around?” he wonders. “We have permission to be here.”

“He’s on the phone,” Sebastian says quietly.

“Yes, and why are we listening?”

“He’s talking about the school,” Sebastian says tensely. Chris subsides into concerned silence, wishing his hearing was as good as Sebastian’s, although he feels a little guilty at eavesdropping.

Chris shifts forward, so Sebastian’s shoulder is pressing against his chest, and leans closer to the door so he can listen.

“...more funding, or--no, I know, I get that, okay. But I mean we’re doing good things for these kids and--all I need is--yeah. Yeah, I know. But some of these kids don’t eat unless they eat here. And the utilities--I need _help,_ man, is what I’m saying. I’ve been needing help for months, and you’re kinda dragging your feet here.”

A long pause. Chris and Sebastian exchange worried looks.

“I’m worried that--” Anthony stops, like whoever is on the other end of the line interrupted him. “If this goes on as it is I’m going to have to scale back or--or. Fuck. Or close it, you hear me? And I can’t _do_ that. I need help. And nobody cares about a group of non-white kids from a dodgy part of town!”

Anthony’s moving away now, his voice softening, and Chris realizes he’s moving to his office. Chris stays perfectly still, almost stops breathing. But he can’t hear anything else. He glances at Sebastian, but Sebastian gives a brief, sharp shake of his head. He can’t hear either.

“Fuck,” Chris says numbly. “I knew it was bad. I just--I thought we would pull through.”

Sebastian leans against the wall, crestfallen and pale.

“We have to do something,” he says shakily.

“Yeah,” Chris says slowly, frowning. “We do. The question is--what?”

Sebastian is silent for a long moment, eyes fixed on the floor. “We have to make people _care.”_

Yeah. But how?


	7. Semi-Charmed Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris and Sebastian come up with a Heroic Plan, though not without some complications.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters might take slightly longer--RL getting hectic for both of us!--but rest assured that we also have a Plan, and we even have a rough draft of the ending done. 
> 
> Title this time from Third Eye Blind's "Semi-Charmed Life": _and the four right chords can make me cry/ when I'm with you I feel like I could die/ and that would be alright, alright_ and _I want something else to get me through this/ semi-charmed kinda life, baby..._

The question continues to hang in the air. The question without an answer: we have to make people care, but _how?_

The silent solid tattered stairwell’s got no suggestion. As shellshocked as they are, and that’s saying something for a building with this many years under its belt.

They care. Anthony cares. The building cares. Won’t be enough. People with deeper pockets need to care too, and not only care but pull out those pockets and empty them into Anthony’s hands.

The lack of answer hurts. Physically, like swallowed arsenic, burning holes through unsuspecting guts.

Chris cares. Chris has always cared. He was raised to believe that a hand held out at the right moment can matter. He’s seen firsthand the difference a refuge can make.

Flattened under the weight of everything they’ve just discovered, he glances over at Sebastian. Not because he’s expecting Sebastian to somehow magically unflatten them both, but because they’re in this together.

They _are_ in this together. And, Chris realizes slowly, Sebastian said it first. We have to do something. As if no other option exists.

Sebastian, who’d shied away from reaching out to Amber, arguing for Chris to take that step instead. Who’d put up every kind of barricade and distance and thorny hedge imaginable between himself and that initial sip of hot chocolate on a chilly night, when it meant accepting kindness from Chris’ hands.

Sebastian said it first, and got there while Chris’ numb brain was continuing to sort out the implications of money and the lack thereof.

He catches himself looking at Sebastian differently. More curiously. Sebastian tilts an eyebrow his way. “What? Do you expect me to conjure thousands of dollars out of my pocket on the spot? I don’t carry money, even if I--”

They both hear the unspoken words, then. The bitter echo of earlier teasing: Sebastian, one night with Sebastian, has been worth that before.

Sebastian licks his lips. Pale blue eyes like gathering storms, turning the idea over, not quite setting it loose.

“No,” Chris says. “No.”

“No.” With a sigh. “I couldn’t in any case. My father would know, and I doubt he’d look kindly on me making side assignations. At least not ones of no value to the circle.”

The words hit the air with a tint of humor like a black-edged bruise, and hang in the stairwell, and skitter off walls. Chris reaches out unthinking and puts a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, and then they both stare at the hand like it’s an alien creature, embarking upon new territory.

He says it again: “No.”

And Sebastian glances down, and back up, and meets his eyes, and nods. Chris can’t entirely read his expression, but Sebastian’s not pulling away from the touch, even though Chris’ fingertips are pressing into the line of his shoulder. “Very well, if that option is off the table...for now…”

“For _always.”_

“For now. What can we do to make people see the value of this place, of having someplace like this?” Sebastian runs a hand through his hair, leaving it rumpled. “For that matter, what people?”

“People with money. Or people with influence.”

“People who might need a cause…” Sebastian’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Did you say your uncle was a congressman?”

“Oh, wow,” Chris says, picking up the thought. “It’s an election year…”

“And a demonstration of compassion for the poor and downtrodden and huddled masses is always welcome.”

“So _cynical,”_ Chris says. “He would actually care, y’know. Not his district, but he’d care. He’s pushed for health care reform, immigration reform, assistance for families in need…”

“So we get him to care about this district, this place, because of the family connection. Everyone loves a man who loves his nephew and his nephew’s volunteer work.” Sebastian grins, wicked and brilliant. “You’ll make the news.”

“I don’t want to make the news. That still doesn’t get us money. Junior congresspeople don’t _have_ a ton of money. Goodwill and publicity, maybe. What can we do?”

“Hmm.” Sebastian looks up at the naked lonely lightbulb, over at the stairs, into shadows. The fingers of one hand twiddle melody, deep in contemplation; Chris can tell it’s a tune from the fingering, but can’t quite get which one. “...what if we put on a fundraiser? An evening event. Gala. Soiree.”

“Did you eat a thesaurus for breakfast? With what _money?_ Who would even come if we did?”

“In between slices of pizza, while you weren’t looking... I can handle that end. I think. My father--we should have a few connections. Don’t ask.”

“Don’t do anything you wouldn’t want to tell me about, then.”

Sebastian opens his mouth, pauses, regards Chris and the objection with a kind of bright exasperated affection. “That’s not how this works. You don’t need to know. And this is important.”

“Yeah,” Chris says, “so’re you,” and Sebastian mutters a few phrases in foreign languages and looks as if he wants to knock a shoulder into Chris’ and only isn’t because the gesture’d be too familiar. Chris grins. Sebastian glares, halfheartedly. “I will see what I can arrange. Favors. Money. _Without_ sleeping with anyone. Happy?”

“If I say yes, will you throw a knife at me?”

“I’d step on your foot. Knives are for threats. Important, _pula mea,_ I can’t--I don’t understand you. I’m not. This is. Call your uncle and see if he can come down and when, and I’ll find us some resources somewhere, and as far as entertainment, I can perform if I have to--”

“Some of the kids, too, it’s about them--and absolutely yes to you, you’re amazing, if you don’t mind, I’ve heard you--”

“Volunteers,” Sebastian says, brushing past the question of his own amazingness, “so we’re not just trotting them out like trained ponies to perform, but the ones who want to, who know what we’re doing, not that we’d tell them we’re in trouble, but we can tell them it’s a fundraiser--”

“ _What’s_ a fundraiser?”

They spin in the direction of the stairwell door. Which hangs guiltily open and frames Anthony on the other side. Anthony crosses his arms. “So, which one of you’s gonna answer that question? Also, eavesdropping, Evans, not your style, and I’m not even gonna ask what you two were doing in the stairwell on a day you’re not scheduled to come in.”

Chris darts a glance at Sebastian. Sebastian’s a little pale, excitement draining in the face of disapproval from the one person who does have the right to banish him from this place. But he doesn’t look ashamed. And Chris isn’t either.

He says, “You could’ve told us,” which isn’t an answer to what they’ve been asked, but is true. “We can help.”

“Yeah, you and what millionaire relatives?” Anthony snorts. “If I told you all everything, morale’d be in the sewers and half the volunteer staff’d start feeling guilty for not doing more, and last I checked you guys do enough.”

“We don’t,” Sebastian says, voice surprisingly steady even if quiet, “if you’re going to have to shut down. We can do more.”

“Come on,” Anthony sighs, “my office, I’m not havin’ this conversation someplace without my favorite chair,” and shoos them out of the stairwell and into the cluttered shoebox-space of a room.

There’s only one other chair. Chris doesn’t take it, too overwhelmed by guilt to accept ripped leather cushions. Sebastian pokes him surreptitiously in the ribs, having maneuvered to walk in behind him. This forces Chris to take the chair, if only to create more space. As revenge, he turns it sideways and lets his knee collide with Sebastian’s leg.

Anthony, observing this interaction, smirks, though the expression’s brief. “We’re just gonna pretend we’ve had the discussion about you listening in on private conversations and you’ve apologized and I’ve accepted, ‘kay? What did you mean, you can do more?”

“We’re sorry,” Chris says. “Very sorry. Um. That--we meant--we were thinking--if you would, we wouldn’t do it without you, and Sebastian can play the piano and I have an uncle and it could be a gala or maybe a soiree, Sebastian’s the one who consumed a thesaurus today?”

Anthony looks at Sebastian, presumably for help. Chris can’t blame him.

Sebastian, one shoulder propped mock-negligently against the wall, explains, “Chris’ uncle is a congressman, and I have...connections, shall we say...and we would like, if you would, to attempt to host a fundraiser for this school, at which I can possibly play the piano and Chris can lead small children in renditions of Disney musicals.”

“Disney musicals,” Anthony repeats.

“He’s extraordinarily good at _The Little Mermaid._ I can with some degree of certainty promise you a federal judge or two, a few at least B-list celebrities, and several men who collectively own quite a large portion of Manhattan.”

Anthony leans forward. Arms on the desk. Scrutinizing Sebastian’s face, above Chris’ shoulder. “And if I was to ask you how you could promise all that...”

“You can ask,” Sebastian says. “You are free to _ask.”_

“Trust us,” Chris says, and the us sounds right on his tongue. “We want to help, Anthony, I swear. We’ll arrange everything, it won’t interfere with whatever you’re doing, just let us try.”

Anthony studies them in turn. Chris holds his breath, and then stops because he’s getting dizzy. The anxiety’s creeping its way up his spine. This matters, this is something they can maybe possibly do, it’s the best idea they’ve got, and if Anthony says no…

He meets Anthony’s dark eyes when they find his. Tries to radiate sincerity and trustworthiness. Can’t see Sebastian’s face.

Anthony exhales, a weary but oddly hopeful sound. “Okay. Yeah.”

“...yeah?”

“I don’t have any better options, so yeah. I want to be in the loop on this, though. You tell me who you’re talking to. Let me approve the guest list and dates and times and shit. And you don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, about which I know you’re gonna make the obvious joke, so don’t bother, just behave yourselves, you’re representing this school, got it?”

“Yeah,” Chris agrees. “Yes.”

“Yes,” Sebastian says from beside him, a heartbeat later, more softly.

“Okay.” Anthony pauses. “Chris-- hey, Sebastian, can you give us a sec? Not gonna be long, I know you two’ve got a big day of lurking in the stairwell or whatever, but he’s got the other set of keys and we need to talk about getting the locks changed.”

Chris blinks, as his worlds temporarily merge. Nikolaj and Alana in his apartment. Anthony here. “...Seb--”

“I’ll be on the roof.” Sebastian vanishes, feline and assassin-swift. Might not even be a metaphor. Not with those knives.

Might not be a metaphor in a different sense. Those blue eyes hadn’t met Chris’, leaving. That’s a concealed stab, not at him but concealed _from_ him.

Chris turns back to Anthony, and snaps, “You didn’t have to do that, if it’s about the damn keys he can stay, I’d trust him with them.” This’s mostly true; he’d trust Sebastian personally without a second thought. He’d not necessarily trust Sebastian’s lifestyle.

Sebastian hadn’t looked at him. Had simply accepted Anthony’s dismissal.

“It’s not about the keys.” Anthony leans back in his chair. It squeaks in tired protest. “You know, I met that kid when he broke in here on a day nobody else was around, just me and the bills, and I heard piano music down the hall, and I thought I was crazy, that busted old thing couldn’t even play, but he could… Thought he’d talk to me someday, open up about whatever was makin’ him need somewhere to go, but he never did. If you know what he’s into, if it’s seriously bad, tell me now.”

Chris, sitting motionless in the visitor’s chair with the torn cushion, opens his mouth. Words lodge themselves in a sticky pile in his diaphragm. Bad? Not even in the same dimension.

Anthony’s mouth tightens. “Yeah. I kinda thought so. So I’m asking you, and you don’t have to tell me anything that’d make you break a promise, but I need to know: is he gonna be any kind of danger to this place? To us?”

“No!” Chris blurts out. Instinctive. And then he stops. Anthony’s watching. Knowledge he wishes he didn’t have nibbles its way along his bones, and leaves his heart cold and gnawed-on. Sebastian, and knives, and thousand-dollar nights.

Sebastian being the first to say _we have to do something,_ in the face of a threat to this school.

He says, every word an unwilling betrayal, “I don’t know. Not on purpose. Never on purpose. But...his, um, where he comes from, his...family...if they ever decided they didn’t want him here…if they didn’t like the way you looked at him...”

“Scorched earth?”

“Burned and salted.” Chris drops his face into his hands. “Fuck.”

“Well,” Anthony agrees, “that about covers it. Okay.”

“...okay?”

“What’m I gonna do, kick him to the curb? I might end up not alive, from what you’re saying. Besides, I like the kid. He’s a good kid. He makes his baby piano-playing army smile. And he’s doing the best he can, as far as I can tell.”

“He is,” Chris breathes. Fervent. Wholehearted. “He is.”

Anthony shrugs. “That’s the whole point, right? Everybody needs somewhere to go. Everybody needs a home. Might’ve heard that in a song once. Go on, he’ll be on the roof, where we’re pretending the ancient home furnishings aren’t a safety hazard, go find him and reassure him that we all love him. Not the same way you do. Get out of my office, Evans. Do your spunky teenage hero thing and save my school.”

“I’m twenty-one!” Chris says plaintively, but lets himself be shoved out the door. He wants to go up to the roof, anyway. He wants to go find Sebastian and feel a little less like a traitor for what he’s told Anthony, even though he was careful, even though he knows Sebastian would in all likelihood understand. Sebastian’s practical that way. Practical and self-deprecating. Chris’ bones ache.

He can try to buy forgiveness with honesty and ice cream, if Sebastian’ll still say yes. He’ll tell the truth, not Anthony’s stupid lie about the keys. Those winter-sapphire eyes hadn’t believed the excuse anyway. And even if Sebastian’s angry or hurt--Chris’ heart twinges at the thought--they still have an event to plan; Sebastian won’t walk out on him.

An event. A fundraiser. A gala. He wants to laugh, but that kind of hurts too, so he just runs up the stairs and pushes open the roof door and steps out. The sun’s pure gold on the top of his head and shoulders, but the breeze is picking up. Icy.

Sebastian’s not on the sofa. A Sebastian-shaped emptiness has conquered his place.

Chris forgets to take the next step, standing there frozen and unable to think, one foot in the air.

That Romanian-mountains-by-way-of-city-skyscrapers accent drifts up from the top of the rusted fire escape. “Over here. No need to look as if I might’ve jumped.”

“You wouldn’t,” Chris hopes, and picks his way across heating vents and general metropolitan detritus. “Why there? That can’t be comfortable.” Especially not with a perfectly good used sofa at hand.

“Comfort wasn’t the point. I assume Anthony was asking you about me, after I told him not to ask me. What did you say?”

“That you’re a good person,” Chris says, squinting at him through a haze of sunlight. The world’s ringed with radiance, and whipped by wind. “That’s what matters.”

 

 

The wallpaper in the hall before his father’s home office is tasteful in that unique way that suggests a single sheet of it costs more than a normal worker’s monthly salary.

It’s cream-colored and striped, soft smooth paper alternating with satin-like stripes from floor to ceiling. It has tiny, lovely clusters of cream-colored leaves and muted lavender flowers at seemingly random intervals.

Sebastian, who could normally not be bothered to devote an atom of attention to the fruits of his father’s girlfriend’s efforts to convert this house, functionally the unofficial headquarters of the Eastern European Mob, into an actual home, has recently become very well acquainted with the décor.

That’s because he has been waiting, here, in this little hall, for two hours.

“Does he do this to everyone he meets?” he wonders aloud, dazed with boredom and mounting resentment.

He had begun this long wait unable to sit still, nervous and anxious to the point his stomach roiled with it, alternatively sprawling in the chair in a good facsimile of relaxation and sitting up to run trembling hands through his hair in futile efforts to contain its wildness. As though the state of his hair and clothes—well fitting and fashionable but sober and discreet for the occasion—would influence his father’s judgment of the worth of this endeavor.

As he'd watched the hours trickle by in front of him (the clock on the wall is a muted lavender color, with delicate golden arms and elegantly faux-scrawled numbers) the tension had dissipated, due to the human body’s sheer inability to maintain prolonged states of alarm and stress without the addition of new triggers.

Triggers for his stress have been as absent of the universe as his father’s attention.

“I’m not here for everyone he meets,” Nikolaj replies neutrally, without opening his eyes. He’s sitting in an uncharacteristic sprawl on the chair next to Sebastian, long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle, fingers laced atop his stomach, head tilted back against the back of the chair.

Sebastian turns his head slowly to look at him, eyes wide and awed at his father’s utter lack of interest.

“He doesn’t normally make me wait this long,” he says blankly.

Nikolaj is quiet for a long, long moment, displaying no reaction and possibly having fallen asleep, although this strikes Sebastian as highly unlikely. Even inside this house, Nikolaj has never been at ease with lowering his guard; has in fact shown even more attention to his surroundings here, as though he’s often contemplated the possibility that this house is the most dangerous ground in which his charge might be found.

Finally he opens one eye and gives Sebastian a speculative look.

“I wonder what your basis for comparison is,” he points out. “Because for the life of me I cannot think of a single time you have ever voluntarily requested an audience with your father for anything other than to pass off information as quickly as humanly possible and then promptly bolt.”

Sebastian blinks at him slowly and considers this.

He casts his mind as far back as he can manage through the large gaps in his memories, the scarred and damaged geography of a mind often altered by substances and, he’s big enough to admit, sheer apathy.

He can’t think of a single time in the last three years in which he has had a conversation with his father that did not directly or obliquely involve the Business, the Circle, or his father’s vast and firm disapproval of what Sebastian wears, does, says, spends his time with, and generally just is. If Sebastian breathes oxygen, his father probably disapproves.

“This isn’t how normal fathers and sons relate to each other, is it?” he asks wearily.

Nikolaj opens his other eye to fix a pale, cautious look on him.

“We are a lot of things, _băiat,”_ he says, not unkindly. “I daresay normal is not one of them.”

Sebastian blinks rapidly and turns away, breathing through the knot in his throat. _Băiat._ It’s been a long time since Nikolaj called him that. _Băiat._ Boy; son.

Nikolaj hasn’t called Sebastian any version of the title-- _alteţă,_ your highness, royalty--in a while. Not outside the hearing of the Circle dwellers. Never in front of Chris, Sebastian is sure of it, not after that fateful first time. Sebastian made a request and Nikolaj complied, but Sebastian knows his old bodyguard well enough to know this graceful surrender of proper protocol is little more than another way to control him. Nikolaj knows how to manipulate him better than anyone else; certainly he has more experience, and little to no compunction in abandoning old rituals if it will make Sebastian more biddable, so long as those rituals are disposable and do not in fact further complicate his life and his duty.

Further complicate… he frowns. Turns sideways to glance at Nikolaj out of the corner of his eye. Nikolaj arches a brow, curious and vaguely amused at the sudden suspicion.

“What do you make of him?” Sebastian asks softly. “Chris.”

“It certainly didn’t occur to me you might be asking me about your father,” Nikolaj replies wryly.

“I know Chris better than I know my father,” Sebastian points out, the edge of resentment in his voice surprising them both.

“That is still a disappointingly low bar,” Nikolaj points out, but without heat. “You might put forth some effort into remedying that situation.”

“I am,” Sebastian replies, arching his brows mockingly.

Nikolaj, who knows perfectly well that Sebastian knows perfectly well he didn’t mean he make an effort to further familiarize himself with _Chris,_ sighs.

“He’s a good man,” he says after a moment. “One of the precious few left, I should add. I don’t know that he’s more remarkable than that. He lacks education and isn’t particularly bright, although to my modest judgment he seems to have some artistic talent.”

“He finished high school, _unlike me,”_ Sebastian points out defensively, offended and appalled on Chris’ behalf.

“Yes,” Nikolaj sighs tiredly. “I suppose you have me there.”

Sebastian frowns at him, confused.

Nikolaj shrugs sinuously, a fluid and elegant motion of his well-trained limbs, the physical result of years of hard training aimed to accomplish total control over his body.

“He is a good man,” he says again, thoughtfully. “I don’t dislike him. Him, specifically, is not my concern. My concern is the ease with which you’ve grown to trust him, and the faith you’ve chosen to put in him. He’s a good man, but not a perfect one.”

“I never said he was,” Sebastian protests.

“But you believe it,” Nikolaj replies softly, eyes downcast and aimed away so that he’s not skewering through Sebastian with his knowing gaze and unwelcome sudden kindness.

Sebastian isn’t sure what to reply to that. He can’t deny that, to some degree at the very least, he’s put Chris on a pedestal that would most likely not resist the collisions of any fact-hard attack. It’s true, what Nikolaj says; no one is perfect. Sebastian is self aware enough, and jaded enough, that he understands his adoration to be foolish and helpless.

That doesn’t mean he’s ready to give it up, or fold to the weight of his own doubts and cynicism. Chris might be at fault for a great many things, but none of those are things Sebastian has witnessed or heard about, and could not in any case hold them against Chris. He knows he, himself, has far outdone whatever ill Chris has committed, whether it be by design or honest clumsiness—the one defect Sebastian can fault him for, and a debatable one at that, since it’s more adorable than irritating.

He’s saved from mustering a reply, though, because at that time the door to his father’s office opens. His father leans against the doorway for a moment, busy studying the screen of his phone. He takes the moment to carefully type something in the touch screen before finally glancing up. It’s been a long time since Sebastian was able to read the expression on his father’s face, and the one he’s wearing now is as unidentifiable as any other.

“Sebastian,” he greets neutrally. “Nikolaj.”

 _“Rigă,”_ Nikolaj greets politely, standing up and bowing his head in a deferential nod. Sebastian slithers to his feet, suddenly furious about the fact he and Nikolaj had had to wait for two fucking hours and then Nikolaj had the obligation to _bow._

But his father is already not paying attention to him, striding back into his office without another word or so much as a backward glance.

Sebastian follows him, the anger draining out of him as though he’s been slapped across the face. He doesn’t glance at Nikolaj, and is not surprised when Nikolaj closes the door behind him without following him into the office. This is either to avoid making himself the target of Marcus’ attention when the man is displeased, or because he genuinely thinks father and son need the privacy. Sebastian really just can’t tell. He thinks he would have preferred Nikolaj to be in here with him, but now, as oftentimes, what he prefers is largely irrelevant.

His father takes a seat at his desk and sets his phone down, fixing Sebastian with a piercing, curious look. Sebastian’s inherited those eyes from him, blue and wide and thick-lashed, feline and clever on his father’s face where they are seemingly guileless in Sebastian’s.

“What have you done now, and to whom?” he asks, quite possibly with a dim glimmer of amusement to his tone.

Sebastian sits in front of him, laying his hands along the armrests of the luxurious leather chair and floundering for a moment. His father appears to be in a good mood, even a forgiving one, if that were necessary. Sebastian doesn’t know how to start this conversation, though; doesn’t know where to begin to ask for help for something good, something untainted and unrelated to the Circle.

Although his father has thus far been content to allow Sebastian to indulge what he considers to be his whims at the school, he’s been adamant that Sebastian do not entangle himself too publicly with it or its volunteers or children. This is both to protect the school itself and Sebastian, of course, Sebastian understands that, and he is about to blow that subject completely out of the water and in a very public way. His father will not be pleased--especially if he brings Chris into the equation, which he will undoubtedly have to, if Chris intends to involve his uncle.

“Out with it,” Marcus says, leaning back in his chair with the air of someone bracing himself for ugliness.

“I,” starts Sebastian, hesitating.

His father sighs tiredly. “Whatever it is, I can fix it. But you need to tell me.”

A startling stab of anger spears through Sebastian’s chest, painful and sudden. “I didn’t break anything,” he says tightly. “I need your help. No, I--I want to _ask_ for your help.”

Marcus’ brows arch up completely. He tilts his head minutely to the side, listening.

“The school,” Sebastian manages. “It’s in trouble. It needs help.”

His father exhales. “That school has been in trouble for a long time. I’m surprised they’ve managed to keep it going this long. It’s losing money like the _Titanic_ made water.”

Sebastian struggles for a moment for something to reply to that that won’t sound childishly defensive or outright hostile. In the moment it takes him to attempt to gather his wits, Marcus sits up and pulls open a drawer.

Sebastian realizes abruptly what is happening, and sits up. “No,” he says firmly. “I don’t want money.”

His father’s eyes rise to him in a slow, dangerous flick from beneath his eyebrows. All amusement dissipates like smoke in the wind.

“You don’t usually have issues with my money,” he says flatly.

Hot fury washes up Sebastian’s neck. “We can’t say I’m not _earning_ it,” he snaps, shocking himself both by the words and the hostility in his tone.

Marcus sits slowly back, lacing his hands in his lap, studying Sebastian with unnervingly detached interest. “How, then, would you like me to help you?”

Sebastian inhales. “We’re organizing a fundraiser.”

Marcus’ eyebrows draw infinitesimally together. The hints of a frown to come. “A fundraiser,” he muses. “An event, I assume, at the school.”

Sebastian forces himself to sit back and relax his spine, lace his hands in his lap like his father. Appear firm and certain where he is in fact anxious and bordering on shivering from nervousness. But he can fake it--god, does he know how to fake it.

“We,” says Marcus, almost like he’s turning the word around in his mouth, like tasting wine.

Sebastian lifts his chin. “We. Me and Anthony and Chris.”

He refuses to shy away from this like a helpless child, to scurry like a cockroach waiting for his father to stomp on the only good thing in his damn life.

Marcus inhales in a long, slow stream, and then exhales slowly. “Why don’t you tell me what you need from me?”

Sebastian spares a moment to wondering when was the last time his father and he had a conversation that didn’t involve one of them requesting something from the other like a business transaction. He has a more or less good idea of where this is going and how fast, and he can tell his father does as well. It’s like watching a trainwreck in slow motion.

“I need contacts and their information so I can meet with them.”

“So Chris and Anthony can meet with them,” Marcus says blankly.

“No,” Sebastian corrects with a sinking feeling of inevitability. “Me. I want to meet them. I want to arrange the meetings. I want to do this. Myself.”

Marcus stares at him for a long moment, utterly inscrutable.

“That is out of the question,” he says with finality. “I’m certain Anthony is a more than adequate ambassador to your cause. Fifty thousand will do, I believe,” and he leans forward to pick up his checkbook.

Sebastian sits up and presses a palm flat to the polished surface of the desk, expensive dark wood almost silken under his skin.

“Don’t,” he says softly, eyes fixed on the desk. “Please. I don’t want the money, just your help. I’ll do the rest myself. We’ll get the money through other means, through--proper channels.”

“This is the proper channel for you,” his father answers coolly.

Sebastian shocks himself alongside his father when he slams his palm down against the desk, the sound loud and violent. Marcus’ eyes flick up, and then he sits back slowly, pen stilled on the check.

 _“Listen to me,”_ Sebastian says, tone strained and low. “I don’t want the money. I don’t want you involved in this. I don’t want you or your money anywhere _near_ the school, do you understand me? I told you this when I started going there. It’s not your place. It’s _mine._ Let me have it. Please.”

He hates the way his voice breaks at the end, in that last little word. How weak and pleading it makes him sound.

His father’s face is completely unreadable.

“If you use my contacts--”

“Those contacts are mine as well,” Sebastian cuts in, again surprising himself, although now his tone is under control and he is capable of being civil and calm. “I helped you make most of them, directly or otherwise. I have a right to them. I’m not begging for scraps here. I’m asking--I’m asking for my due.”

He realizes even as he says it that he _does_ feel the right to this. That the things he has to put up with and surrender himself to should not come unrewarded to him, and that the things his father considers his rewards--his bodyguards, his expensive fashionable clothes, his not inconsiderable monthly allowance, too much like a wage for Sebastian’s liking--are not so. Not to him. They’re not his. Not like this.

His father puts down the pen slowly, carefully. His eyes are downcast, flicking thoughtfully from one object on the desk to the next.

“This is a lot of exposure,” he says slowly.

“I’ll be doing it in my own time,” Sebastian is quick to assure. “It won’t interfere with my duties or responsibilities. Nothing has to change. You don’t need to be involved. I just need names. That’s all.”

“Yes,” Marcus says impatiently. “That hardly needs to be said. That you will continue to attend to your duties with perfect performance is implied. What I object to is that you must do this personally, when you can easily rely on others.”

“I don’t know that I do trust others to do it,” Sebastian confesses, because Chris is an outstanding human being but his political skills are probably nothing to be thrilled about, considering his issues with anxiety, and although Anthony is the kind of magnetic man who makes everyone automatically want to be better just by virtue of existing, he’d likely think manipulating someone into helping for anything but the right reasons--whatever those are, Sebastian could not tell you--would be dishonorable and unworthy.

Dishonorable and unworthy Sebastian can do. Will do. Perfectly.

His father stares at him for a long, long time. “You really care about the school this much.”

Sebastian cannot for the life of him read the meaning of the softening tone of his father’s voice, or the odd light in his eyes, so all he says is, _“Da. Te rog. Tată.”_

He hasn’t called his father ‘father’ in a long, long time, but he finds he is not above it now. Not above being manipulative and aiming low sharp blows to soft body parts. He is, after all, his father’s son. Very much his father’s son.

Marcus’ eyes narrow. “All this for a _nepoftit.”_

Sebastian sits up straight, feeling a tendril of cold snake down his spine. “Leave Chris out of this.”

“Hard to achieve, considering.”

Sebastian’s hands tighten on the armrests of the chair. The leather creaks. “Been talking to Nikolaj?” he asks quietly.

“I hardly need to talk to Nikolaj to know what my son is up to,” Marcus replies.

The sound that comes out of Sebastian’s mouth is not a laugh. It’s bitter and ugly and cutting like a shard of glass. Marcus would not know whether Sebastian was alive or not if Nikolaj did not keep him updated daily, so that sentence is one of the biggest, fattest lies Sebastian has heard from his father’s mouth in a long time.

“The school came first, in any case,” Sebastian settled for saying. “I met him there. And anyway, whatever I do or do not do with him doesn’t interfere with my duties, so you needn’t concern yourself with an outsider.”

 _Outsider_ is not quite the translation for the word his father used, but Sebastian refuses to repeat it. Because Chris is not _unwanted,_ not an _intruder._

“The names,” he says, rising to his feet. “I’m sure Tatiana will be able to discern which ones will help me the most. She can send them to my email tonight. Was there anything you needed to talk to me about?”

“You have an assignment tomorrow afternoon,” Marcus says flatly. Sebastian’s stomach turns. That’s short notice. Which means his father has made a split-second decision to see if he can trust whoever is at the other end of this deal based on instinct, and it’s Sebastian’s mission to determine whether he is trustworthy or not.

“Nikolaj will have the details by the evening. There is nothing else we need discuss. But Sebastian--I hate to think of what will happen once Christopher realizes what your life really is like. You know how _nepoftit_ are… fickle… fragile.”

Breath catches painfully in Sebastian’s throat. He nods, wordless, and leaves. He knows his father’s secretary Tatiana will send him a list of names by the end of the day, along with the details of tomorrow’s assignment.

He had planned on seeing Chris tomorrow afternoon. He’d hoped--well.

It doesn’t matter what he’d hoped.

It never does.


	8. Oh, What A Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fundraiser night, and what happens after, in the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** for Chris having a relatively minor--or at least they get through it pretty well--anxiety attack at the party.
> 
> Also, then there might be first kisses and shirtless making-out in bed. Which probably doesn't need a warning. :-)
> 
> Hi hi! Sorry this chapter took ages! We've both had tons of RL things going on that involve Big Life Changes. But we actually have lots more written--mostly because Luni fails at writing linearly--so we even have, like, a rough draft of the ultimate ending done. So thank you for putting up with us, and we promise that it should be a bit faster as we catch up to all the bits we've got written in advance.
> 
> Chapter title from the Four Seasons' "December 1963 (Oh, What A Night)" because of that time Sebastian Stan was singing "Sherry" on stage: _and I felt a rush like a rolling bolt of thunder/ spinning my head around and taking my body under/ oh, what a night..._

Three weeks later, the universe shimmers. Fairy-lights and streamers. Glitter from women’s dresses, men’s rings, the sound of muted evening-party laughter. Chris, lurking around the side of the temporary stage, basks in the success while avoiding the spotlight. Triumph. Incredible.

The evening, two hours in, is going brilliantly. Not flawless--they’d run out of champagne at one point, and he’s pretty sure he’s caught one or two of his kids pondering the advisability of pickpocket attempts--but good overall. He’d glared at the kids in question until they’d got the message; Sebastian had made a phone call and five minutes later more cases of golden fizzy wine had appeared. They’re coping.

He watches the crowd. It’s a good crowd. A good mix. And they’re even having fun. His uncle’s brought a few lobbyists and a state senator along; his brother’s shown up in support with several soap-opera friends; there’s a celebrity chef and a few actresses Chris recognizes but can’t quite name, some men he doesn’t know at all who wear suits like they’ve never worn anything else, and all of them smile and applaud at each performance and slip money or checks into discreet envelopes.

They’re got the whole building transformed, the entire aged school shaken back into life, waking up and eager. The walls might be faded but they’re proud, wearing cracked paint like scuffed armor, ready and able to take on all the battles of weary time. The tables’re old--they’re the ones the kids use for art, plus a few scavenged from yard sales or donated by Chris’ family members--but the mismatched quality gives the night an otherworldly charm, like even that’s a form of enchantment. The kids had spent weeks making art--sketches, watercolors, anything--and those’re out as centerpieces, and they catch the light happily. They’re for sale, too. Chris had asked about this tactfully--he wasn’t going to sell anything if his kids wanted to take it home--but they’d all said yes. Of course.

He suspects they know more than they’re letting on about the state of the school’s finances. That or they just want to help. Good kids, all of them.

He’s unsure when or how Sebastian made inquiries among his own students, but at least three had volunteered to perform. One of them, Benjamin, is actually quite good, at least to Chris’ ears; young and tiny, maybe eight years old and small for his age, but with natural talent in the movement of quick hands and bright dark eyes. Chris had mentioned as much, during one of their frantic rehearsals; Sebastian’d nodded. Ben doesn’t talk much and they don’t know anything about his family, but after the round of applause and interested art-connoisseur glances tonight he’ll likely have a more promising future. He’s next to Anthony at the moment, so completely safe; Chris isn’t worried there.

Chris _is_ a tiny bit worried about Sebastian, though not because of this particular night. Because Sebastian has been practically nonexistent the past three weeks--not gone, and certainly showing up for rehearsals and one night of faint smiles and lingering piano-notes, letting Chris try and fail to capture the quicksilver artistry of those hands. But quieter. Preoccupied. When Chris’d asked, the one-word answer’d been simple and simply heart-skewering.

Appointments. Sebastian’s had them.

Not the same as whatever favors have been asked for this night--Chris does believe that; Sebastian’s never outright lied to him--but nevertheless. His father’s keeping him busy. He’s looking thinner again. More pale. Once or twice moving, walking, sitting, in visible discomfort. He isn’t talking about it.

Plus there’s whatever Sebastian’s called in as far as meetings and obligations--and Chris, despite knowing nothing about the inner workings of the criminal underworld, understands that there’s always a price. Maybe Sebastian’s balancing old accounts, maybe he’s owing now, maybe some people just want to be on the good side of the boy with a certain title; however this plays out, Chris knows it won’t be small. Can’t be. Not for this twinkling evening.

Sebastian’d started the night. No proper introduction, no fanfare, simply walking out onto the stage and sitting down and starting to play.

The room’d gone silent. Not all at once, whispers and conversations stuttering and dying and turning to embers, but inexorable.

Chris, like everyone, had been spellbound. He’d known Sebastian was good. He’d never known Sebastian was this good.

Sebastian at the school, teaching students, tends to play what they ask or what their skill level demands. Sebastian when teasing Chris tends to play Disney musical numbers, nineteen-fifties pop-song flirtation, or experimental little fragments of unfinished tunes.

This had been something else.

This had been Sebastian giving the piano and the melody and the next note his full attention. This had been fingertips and keys as lovers, entwined. Chris will never forget.

Sebastian hadn’t looked up. Seemingly barely aware of the audience, the gala, the party. Might’ve just wandered in from the cold, spotted an instrument, and fallen head over heels into music. No one else in the room. In the universe.

Sebastian has astonishing range. Chris hadn’t known most of the pieces, though he’d recognized one song, later, and laughed. The first one he hadn’t known, something fluttery and whimsical as kite-strings in the breeze. The second one’d been Beethoven. The third one had been--with a very tiny smile in pale blue eyes--Sinatra. Strangers in the night. Exchanging glances. That’d been the moment when Chris had laughed, and felt his heart flip.

Sebastian’d segued from Sinatra into something else he’d not recognized, though other people in the room evidently had, from the hush. Deceptively uncomplicated, not fast. Classical and precise and delicate, and Chris had realized slowly how exquisite Sebastian’s control was, perfect timing in a piece in which every note had to count, had to sing, had to speak of unutterable emotion.

Pain, that emotion. Grief. Anguish. Crystalline and distilled to single pure weeping drops. Sebastian’s hands and the piano.

Not despair, though. Chris, shaken and gazing at the flicker of hands, had realized that too. About determination, he’d thought. Resolution. Someone who’d made a choice, who’d not turn back. Mourning, in the music, but not sad: the someone was very probably going to die, and knew it, and considered the choice worthwhile.

Sebastian had let the last note linger, hands still. No sounds from the rapt room. Maybe one or two gulps of tears.

Sebastian’d glanced up, acknowledging them all for the first time, and then smiled like mercury, quicksilver and fleeting, and pulled new music out of the night. One that everybody knew, upbeat and full of love and springtime and a thousand wedding playlists; and the relieved laughter and singing-along had begun almost instantly, shivering recovery from catharsis. Chris hadn’t even known a piano version of “Sweet Caroline” existed. Of course Sebastian did. Of course Sebastian could bring a roomful of people from weeping to joy.

After that one, Sebastian’d gotten up and bowed and tried to say “thank you for coming--” but had gotten drowned out by applause. He’d given up after a while and let it go on, but Chris had spotted the slight tension in his shoulders, the invisible retreat.

Chris had had the stray thought, then, that Sebastian had been nervous, remained nervous. He can’t say why it’d occurred to him, but he knows without confirmation that he’s right.

Sebastian’s brilliant. Chris knows. Now everyone knows. And Sebastian’s been very good at hiding it, for a very long time.

There’re reasons for that beyond the obvious heartbreaking internal ones. Kidnapping attempts. Assassination attempts. And this is Sebastian on a stage.

Nikolaj’s around, wearing a sleekly tailored suit--Chris’d done a double-take, and received a deadly scowl in return--and so’re several other members of Sebastian’s personal Legion of Doom security detail. Covering doors. Watching windows. Scowling at various guests who seem to be looking at their charge a bit too long. Sebastian had sighed, preparing to go up on stage, and said, “I expect they’re waiting for me to drink three bottles of champagne, accept the cocaine that the excessively friendly District Attorney tried to offer me outside, and let someone fuck me on the back staircase by the end of the night. They may be disappointed.” At Chris’ expression, had added, “Joke, you understand. Mostly.”

Chris had wanted to say _they’re not._ Had wanted to say, _they love you, you idiot, I love you._ Had said, voice rough with too many syllables, “Don’t.”

And Sebastian’s eyes had softened, meeting his, sliding from flippant razor’s-edge to hesitant sunshine. “Oh.”

“Go on,” Chris had said, waving at the stage. Sebastian’d smiled faintly, and gone.

They’re both wearing grey suits. That hadn’t been on purpose. Just one of those coincidences. As if they’d chosen to match. As if they’d thought alike.

Right now the piano’s off to one side and being played by, of all people, Amber. Chris is both surprised and unsurprised. She’s better than he’d remembered, attacking _The Nutcracker_ with ferocity while members of the Monday dance class, Scarlett’s class, perform what seems to be an updated version of the ballet that weaves in hip-hop and salsa moves. This is also getting applause.

Chris applauds too. For the night. For what they’ve managed to do. Himself and Sebastian together. He truly doesn’t know the entirety of what Sebastian’s done on his end and he maybe never will, but it’s brought out sparkling froth on the tip of New York society, men and women with money to spare suddenly taking an interest in this dilapidated neighborhood and proclaiming that they’ve been great patrons of youth art programs all along.

Chris thus far has not had to talk much, for which he’s grateful. He’s fine one on one, meeting bodies, shaking hands, chatting for a while, thanking donors in person, making the rounds. He’s done interviews about the school and volunteering. He can fake confidence for a few minutes, for the few people he’s with at any given time.

He knows himself well enough to know that the larger crowd’ll get to him eventually. The sheer numbers. So many. So many eyes. He’ll start to sweat and then panic because he’s sweating and then panic because that’s a stupid small thing to worry about when the future of their school depends on this night, and then he’ll feel that weight pressing down on his chest from inside--

Sebastian materializes at his side as if Chris’ not-quite-imminent anxiety attack has conjured him up. “You’re looking distressingly serious. Will it help if I assure you that I’ve not slept with any of the attendees? In order to get them here tonight, I mean. We shall refrain from discussing the past.”

Chris, knocked out of his own headspace and unutterably grateful for it, puts a hand on the closest of Sebastian’s shoulders. “No, of course not. You said you wouldn’t.”

Sebastian stares at him. “You believed me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

They’re saved from this mutual clash of expectations by the arrival of Chris’ uncle’s beaming face and expansive arms. “Christopher!”

“Oh, hey--”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this place? Great place! Could use a little fixing-up, but it’s a damn good cause!”

“It is, that’s why--”

“And who’s this?” Grinning gregariously at Sebastian. Sebastian’s eyebrows go up. “You were playing the Gluck earlier, the _Morte d’Orphee!_ Fantastic! Don’t tell me, you go to Juilliard or one of those places, right? Homes for genius? And you volunteer here too, that’s pretty fuckin’ impressive, young man!”

Sebastian assumes a surprised expression--Chris can tell it’s fake; he’s seen Sebastian truly surprised and this is closer to flirtatious--and inquires, “Are American congressmen encouraged to swear this much, or is it an Evans family trait?”

Representative Capuano laughs. “Chris, you didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend! And a genius one!”

“What--no, he’s--he and I don’t--we’re not--I mean--”

“What Chris means,” Sebastian interjects, smoothly sliding an arm around Chris’ waist, “is that we’ve not even gotten to that stage yet. Still rather new. In fact, I think you’re the first person to say the word, sir. Congratulations.”

Chris suspects his jaw’s someplace in the vicinity of the floor. Can’t even nod. At least Sebastian’s a good enough actor for the both of them.

“Sir?” This appellation gets another laugh. “Uncle Mike to you, kid, if you can put up with him. What’s your name, son? And are you by chance registered to vote in Massachusetts?”

Sebastian grins. “Sebastian. And, tragically, New York, sir. Otherwise you’d get mine.”

“New York, huh?” They regard each other for a moment. Chris isn’t entirely certain what silent signals’re being exchanged, but he does know that his uncle’s jocular personality covers up keen legal insight and distinct talent at political maneuvering and a dangerous amount of familial devotion. And Sebastian’s Sebastian, which means a lot of walls behind deliberate winsome charm.

Uncle Mike muses, contemplatively, “Sebastian what? Should I know your family?”

“Oh...I doubt you would. We’re not terribly prominent.” Sebastian widens his eyes. Guileless and sweet. “And if I told you it’d ruin your fun.”

“Hmph. One of the Morgans? No, not with that accent. Eastern Europe? Not Germany.”

“I did spend four years in Austria, but no. And the family, if you require a hint, imports wine.”

Chris chokes on air at this apparently sincere lie. His uncle raises eyebrows. “Maybe you can send some our way. What’s the name on the label, again?”

“That won’t give you mine. Schubert, let’s say. Who rides so late through night and wind…”

“Goethe?” Mike’s eyes narrow. “I did German literature in college. ‘Der Erlkönig’? Should I be concerned about my nephew?”

“Not a threat,” Sebastian says, “only a joke,” and adds something in German that makes Chris’ uncle laugh out loud.

“I like you, kid. You got style. Which, by the way, my nephew could use. Not exactly enchanted golden Elf-King robes, there.”

They both study Chris’ rumpled suit consideringly. Chris, uncomfortable and outclassed and generally stressed, glares at Sebastian and refuses to be intimidated by his uncle and his fake boyfriend.

Sebastian murmurs something else, not in English, soft and fond unless that’s Chris’ imagination, and shrugs. “I do like him, nevertheless.”

“Send over a case of wine,” Mike rumbles, grinning, “and I’m writing you a check, and if you ever need a job, come talk to me. You’d make a scary politician.”

“Perhaps someday. Family obligations, at the moment...and this place, of course. How _large_ a check?”

It’s a question that’s playful, not designed for an answer, but underscoring the point of the evening; it gets another laugh. “Seriously, kid, you’d fit right in, in Washington. We’d probably all end up working for you. Make Chris bring you over sometime. Dinner. Italian. I make a mean lasagna, and you could use some feeding up. Christopher, take care of your genius boyfriend, and tell your mom we’re having a family dinner soon, okay?”

“Um,” Chris says, now panicking for a completely different reason. His family. Sebastian. Italian-Irish boisterous parties and practical jokes and nieces wanting to play dress-up. His mother being informed that Sebastian’s his boyfriend, believing it’s real.

“He takes excellent care of me.” Sebastian loops the arm around Chris’ waist again. Chris, confused and nervous but playing along, puts his own across Sebastian’s shoulders. Sebastian adds, “And thank you for the invitation, we’d be happy to come and have lasagna, sir,” and Uncle Mike nods approvingly at them and wanders off to talk to the mayor.

Chris drops his arm, spins around to face Sebastian, and demands, “What was that?”

“That was me agreeing to let your uncle smother me in Italian food, I believe. I do _not_ need ‘feeding up’. Should we--”

“Yes you do! And you know what I mean! You let him think--”

They’re interrupted by an explosion of blonde curls and a wide smile above a red dress. The girl’s petite and lovely but strong-shouldered, posture full of easy confidence; Sebastian smiles back. She kisses him on both cheeks, a casually intimate greeting that makes Chris flinch, and announces, “I couldn’t believe that was you, you _never_ play in public, _puiule!”_

“Chick,” Sebastian translates at Chris’ sidelong glance, with the air of someone who’s past bothering to object to any nicknames. “Chris, this is Margarita; Margosha, Chris Evans. You’ve probably seen her on television. Various complicated political dynasty dramas. Her family and mine are...friends, let’s say. For lack of a more precise word.”

“What he means is that my father borrowed an absolute ton of money from his father when we first got here,” Margarita says, unrepentant, “and paid it back, with interest, so no one’s complaining. Is this honestly where you spend your time? And why have I never heard anything about gorgeous men on the premises?” She’s scrutinizing Chris with much the same eagerness that Chris’s seen from Sebastian regarding chocolate and the savoring of tastes.

Sebastian puts a hand on Chris’ shoulder. Chris blinks at this display of unusual possessiveness. He’s not objecting--in fact, a large part of his heart’s thoroughly happy to belong to Sebastian--but he’s definitely startled. Sebastian doesn’t want things. Doesn’t allow himself to want things.

“Chris volunteers here,” Sebastian says, a clear edge to his tone, and then follows up with something coolly delivered in Romanian. Margarita puts her head on one side, looks at him and the hand, sighs. Then looks at Chris. “I hope you know what you’re in for. Sebastian...well, I mean that for you too. What you’re in for. You can’t--”

“I know,” Sebastian cuts in. Politely. With steel.

“No, I don’t think you do.” She sighs again. “Look, I’m not here to tell you what to do. I’m here because you asked and because there’s a very cute guy on your catering staff and I’d kind of like to invite him into my kitchen, y’know? But also because I heard something. I was home the other day, seeing my father, right? And he was in a meeting, and they said something about Russians, and--”

“That’s business,” Sebastian snaps. “Not here.”

“No, and you know I don’t even, I’m an actress, I left, God, I don’t want to know. But my father said they were asking about you. Where you go, what you do, if you’re currently with anyone, how much they paid for you. He didn’t tell them.”

And Sebastian’s mask cracks, a hairline fracture. Chris isn’t sure whether that’s surprise at the nature of the news, or at the fact that someone’s protected him. “I--thank you.”

“Nope, no need, just owe me a favor, okay?” Plus a sentence or two in French, too rapid for Chris’ high-school abilities to follow. “And I’m off to find my catering boy. And here. For your school.” In a ripple of red skirt, she’s gone. Leaving a diamond bracelet in Chris’ loose hand.

Sebastian’s staring after her with a mix of exasperation and appreciation and bemusement. “I didn’t think her father even remembered me…”

“She gave us diamonds...do you know how much this is worth…”

“Quite a lot, I’d imagine. She said...that last part...I know you speak French. She--”

“Not _well.”_

“She said that we needed to stick together, the children of...well, our parents...I haven’t seen her in years. I don’t know why she came.”

“She said you asked.”

“I asked everyone I could think of. Most of them owe my father favors, or don’t want me making certain assignations public. I thought, if she came, we’d get more people, because she is an actress, and a good one.” Sebastian nibbles at his lip. “I admit to being confused.”

Chris isn’t. He knows Sebastian won’t understand if he tries to explain. He wonders whether Sebastian’s ever slept with that girl, with her wide smile and effervescent sparkle. Don’t ask about the past, Sebastian’d said. “Does your family actually import wine?”

“What? Oh. Yes, in fact.” Sebastian smiles, bewitching as the fairy-lights on the tables. “That branch of the business is unquestionably legitimate. And quite lucrative. Where do you think the extra champagne came from?”

“You’re enjoying this,” Chris accuses, eyebrows up, hands shoved into suit-pockets so they won’t reach out to tug Sebastian closer and never let go. “You secretly like people.”

“I like _observing_ people. I am presently worrying about Russians, and you.” Sebastian lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Perhaps I like being someone else for a night. Schubert, I think I said to your uncle, to borrow a very dead composer’s surname. Sebastian Schubert probably enjoys playing for tone-deaf audiences and eating those tiny cubes of cheese on sticks from the hors d’oeuvre table.”

“Yeah,” Chris says, “but that’s you having fun, too,” which is no doubt too clumsy and not at all what he means, words inadequate and fumbling as bricks in the rain; but Sebastian looks at him with quiet curiosity and then doesn’t look away.

“There’s also chocolate,” he adds, just for something to say. The sounds don’t mean what they reveal on the surface. Just whatever comes to mind, with Sebastian looking at him. “Little cream-puff things. Fluffy.”

“Fluffy chocolate.” Sebastian shakes his head, smile curving the corners of those wonderful lips. In the background _The Nutcracker_ ’s finishing up and a few silvery balloons’ve come loose and bounced merrily toward the ceiling. The night quivers, breathless and intimate amid the celebrity throng.

Chris opens his mouth, and then Anthony’s voice booms out from the microphone on stage, “Okay, we do want to thank you all, this is overwhelming, honestly, we’re so touched and honored, and we’re not done, I think we’ve got a few more performances, but I’d like to get our two volunteers up here, the ones who made this happen, someone find Chris and Seb for me!”

Dozens of pairs of eyes swing their way. Sebastian flinches, but turns the movement into a wave, playing up shyly adorable charm. Chris flinches too, not as gracefully. Oh fuck. Oh fuck, the eyes.

They get shoved toward the stage. Sebastian gets his arm back around Chris’ waist and a shoulder unobtrusively under Chris’ and hisses, “Are you all right? Lean on me!”

“I’m--I’ll be okay, I can handle this--” He’s not certain he can. He’s trying not to rely on volunteered slim strength too noticeably in public.

“I’m going to kill Anthony,” Sebastian whispers, sounding sincerely angry on Chris’ behalf.

“Don’t--” He knows why Anthony did it. Anthony firmly believes that Chris needs to be pushed out of his comfort zone on occasion, which is probably true, and also Chris has been a public face for the school in recent interviews, being arguably the most awkwardly humanly endearing of the volunteers, and hence might be more recognizable. Some warning would’ve been awfully fucking nice, though.

They get up on stage and Anthony hands over the microphone as if they’re expected to say something and Chris’ brain is absolutely terrifyingly empty and his heart’s trying to batter itself to death against his ribs. Sebastian’s arm hasn’t left his waist. He clings to the warm line of it. Real. Grounding.

Sebastian plucks the microphone out of his limp hand, displays a scintillating smile at the attendees, and dives in with, “Thank you, Anthony, for springing that on us, you can tell we weren’t exactly prepared, I’d’ve had far more champagne,” and the audience--which has been enthusiastically partaking of that champagne and consequently ready to cheer at anything resembling a joke--laughs.

“I don’t do this often,” Sebastian goes on, “you’ve probably seen Chris more, and with good reason. He’s the kindest person I know, and one of the beating hearts of this place, keeping it running, keeping us all alive. I show up and play the piano and occasionally make terrible coffee. Please note that none of the coffee service tonight was touched by me. This means it is actually drinkable.”

Chris, pulling himself temporarily together--a band-aid in the pause for more affable laughter--leans in and contributes, “It’s sad that I know how much he’s not joking,” and gets another round of applause. Sebastian tightens the arm around him in appreciation. Anthony’s radiating pride to such an extent that he seems about to float away.

“I tried to say thank you earlier,” Sebastian goes on, “at the beginning of the night. I meant it then. I mean it even more now. Thank you to everyone for being here, for coming when we called--” There’s a tint of irony to those words, but only a tint. “--and for helping us keep this place going. I do need to say thank you, in fact, not only to you all--sorry--but to a few other people. Chris. Anthony. Our students, some of whom you’ve heard from and spoken with tonight. We’re making this a home for them, but it’s a home for--us--as well. I should know. So...thank you. For this place.”

When he hands the microphone back to Anthony, Anthony grumbles, “Look at you, makin’ me cry--” and of course the sound gets picked up, and the moment cracks into heartfelt smiles and more donations appearing out of thin air and clapping.

Sebastian waves with the hand not supporting Chris, and gets them both off the stage.

People stop them, wanting to talk, wanting to shake hands. Margarita, with a smudge of chocolate on her cheek, blows a kiss. Chris starts losing his grip on coherence again. Too many demands. Sweat under his collar. Lungs not working. Thank God Sebastian’s capable of enchanting a room. If it’d been up to Chris alone…

He can’t think about that. He fights not to. Sweating under his suit. No air. Sebastian’s eyes’re huge and anxious and beautifully blue, blue like watercolor skies, and he tries to focus on the hue.

Nikolaj pops up from--somewhere--and magically orchestrates a path toward a door. Back of the main room. Hallway. Anthony’s office. Okay, that works, he can sit down. Can sit down and not think about all the eyes and expectations and judgment and weight on his shoulders. Shh, he tells his brain. Please. Not helping.

He doesn’t quite land on the chair when he tries to sit, and ends up toppling onto the floor. Sebastian mostly catches him, and lands down there with him, arm around his shoulders, frightened and tight.

That’s not right. Sebastian shouldn’t be frightened on Chris’ behalf. Sebastian should be safe and warm and drinking hot cocoa and leaning on Chris if he needs someplace to go, not--not picking up Chris’ burdens and carrying them, not on top of everything else Sebastian’s got to deal with--

“No,” Sebastian says firmly, like he can hear what Chris is thinking. Maybe he can. “Chris, listen, you’re okay, we’re okay, I’ve got you, _da?_ I’m here, we’re in Anthony’s office, no one’s coming in, we can stay here all night if you want.” His tie’s crooked and his hair’s ruffled like he’s run a hand through it in worry. Chris doesn’t remember seeing the gesture.

“I know you told me you get--anxiety, I remember, I just--I don’t know what to do.” His voice shakes a fraction. “ _Rahat_ \--I’m not _good_ at--okay, no, not about me--can you tell me what to do? To help? Nikolaj’s sending someone for water.”

Chris hadn’t heard that order either. He nods, shaking. He’s aware that he’s perspiring and sticky and no doubt smells disgusting. Sebastian keeps the arm around him, and says, a little desperately, “Breathe? With me? In, and out? That’s good, like that, don’t worry about anything else, just one more breath?”

Chris wants to say words--you are helping, you’re actually really fucking good at this, thank you, I’m sorry, thank you--but has to concentrate on the breathing part for now. In. Out. Right. To the cadence of Sebastian’s voice, the inhale and exhale matching his.

 

Panicking helps no one. Panicking is counterproductive. Panicking, in an emergency situation, puts lives at risk. Sebastian knows this. He’s been told as much by his bodyguards. If peril’s around, he’s supposed to stay calm, breathe, follow directions.

Right now he very much wants to panic. Chris is falling apart, Chris’ breaths’re making an awful raspy sound, Chris’ face is too pale behind the beard--

He makes his voice say, staying calm, “You’re okay, you’re doing fine, we’re safe in here, I’ve got you. Here,” and he puts Chris’s hand on his own chest, lets Chris feel the rise and fall. “In. Hold it. Out.” Chris blinks at him, dazed.

They do it again. Chris seems to be managing a bit better this time. More focus in those eyes. The floor’s hard, but not unsympathetic, beneath them. The air’s chilly back here, away from the party, and it tastes of champagne and apprehension. Every detail’s seared into Sebastian’s heart. Chris, needing help. Chris needing help, and--and Sebastian’s the one who’s here. Who wants stupidly and helplessly to _be_ here, to make this okay.

He knows he doesn’t know what to do.

He knows he isn’t the hero in this fairy-story.

He knows the linoleum floor’s cold and peeling and scuffed by a chair-leg next to Chris’s hip. That mark’s here too. With them.

He rubs Chris’ back with his other hand. Eases a little closer, the two of them huddled side by side on the ground beside Anthony’s favorite tattered chair. Nikolaj raises eyebrows, but does not comment.

Chris shuts his eyes. His hair’s damp and dark with sweat. His eyes’re unhappy when they open again, self-castigating and apologetic. Sebastian thinks he’s beautiful. Sebastian thinks he was the strongest person in that room, tonight, and no one’ll ever know how much it cost him.

Nikolaj’s right. Chris isn’t perfect. Chris is human. Chris is leaning into Sebastian’s arm around his shoulders like he can’t help but want the touch.

Chris starts to say something. Sounds a lot like the beginning of “I’m sorry--”

“No,” Sebastian says, continuing to be calm. He wants to pull a knife and hurl it at anyone who told Chris that this was something to apologize for. He doesn’t. “No.”

“But I--you--oh God the party--”

“The party will continue. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“This isn’t…” Chris gazes at him, forlorn. “I mean. You need--no, fuck, I didn’t mean that. My brain’s all wrong right now. Never mind.”

Chris means: you need me to be strong. You need me to be your refuge, your safe space built of soft sheets and Disney films, your comfort when men with shark-like smiles hurt you. Chris isn’t wrong. Sebastian, sitting on the time-worn floor of Anthony’s office, forgets to breathe for a second, and when he does it’s an odd painful twist of air in his chest.

He hadn’t meant to need Chris. He hadn’t _wanted_ to need Chris. He hadn’t wanted to fall in love with Chris, but it seems that’s happened, if the slender skillful knife-tip skewering his heart is any indication. It hurts when he thinks about Chris hurting.

He says, “I don’t need your brain to be perfect.” Chris looks at him in some surprise, not exactly offended, not exactly understanding.

“I can be what people need,” Sebastian says, “sometimes, when they want that.”

Chris now looks exhausted _and_ horrified. Sebastian rethinks his own sentence. “...oh. No. Not like that. I used to try to avoid you, and I can’t tell you everything, but I’ve never not been...well, myself. Around you. Annoying, that, you understand.”

Chris’ expression--shifts, kindles, changes. Still exhausted, still shaken. But he takes a sip of water when Sebastian hands it to him, and Sebastian’s heart feels--something new. He doesn’t have a name for that one, as raw and tender as it is.

He finishes, “Right now I want to be what you need. Because I want to. And that includes taking you home and putting you to bed. Can you get up?”

“...yeah,” Chris breathes. “Sebastian. I. Yeah,” and then grabs his hand as they move. “You said you want to. Are you--are you saying we--”

“Don’t,” Sebastian says. “You just nearly fainted in my arms and I--” Have bruises on my arms and thighs from a party two nights ago that involved elaborate knot-tying demonstrations. Have so many other bruises, long-healed and existing only in memory, and they turn me black and blue and used-up inside, and that’s a lifetime away from your pizza and sunshine. “--played the piano for an audience tonight for the first time in years. Give us a few hours to recover, _da?”_

Chris shuts his eyes again, opens them, gazes at Sebastian. Definitely emotion in that gaze. Sebastian’s not sure what. Not any of the ones he’s most often encountered.

Chris starts to say something, stops, changes his answer to, “Can we say I heroically refused to pass out, instead of the thing about me fainting in your arms? Much more impressive. Not that I mind your arms.”

Sebastian can’t resist. “My arms don’t mind you.”

Nikolaj rolls his eyes.

In that direction, Sebastian says, “Get the car,” and Nikolaj gives him a _stupid boy_ expression and replies, “Already done.”

“Thanks,” Chris says, with a quirk of his mouth that suggests ruefulness at the necessity, at being a burden, at the way his fingers curl inadvertently into Sebastian’s suit jacket when they start to stand.

Sebastian’s suit jacket does not mind. His heart doesn’t either, though it knows how foolish it’s being. He shoves that nagging leaden voice aside-- _he doesn’t need you, he needs someone who knows what to do, what makes you think you can do anything good for this man,_ it demands--because he has no retort, no comeback. All he has is an arm to wrap around Chris’ back and a shoulder available to be leaned on.

They fumble upright and out the door and into the stairwell and the exit door there. They get into the car and Sebastian puts his arm back around Chris. The air’s cold and blue and the car is also cold and blue, and echoes of piano- mourning dance at the back of his head, grief tempered by optimism. Chris sighs, tips their heads together, shuts his eyes. Neither of them says anything. Sebastian can’t tell what Chris is thinking, and for his own part simply doesn’t know what to say. I’m here, he thinks, I want to be here; and that thought’s strong enough that he’s amazed Chris can’t hear it too.

But Chris seems content beside him. That means--

Well, he’s not certain what it means. Something, anyway. Something.

He borrows Chris’ phone to text Anthony--who doesn’t know Sebastian’s mobile number, for multiple and varied reasons--to say they’ve left and they’re all right but they won’t be coming back to the party. After a moment’s hesitation, he adds, _this is Sebastian, sorry,_ because he’s not bothered trying to sound like Chris and Anthony’ll no doubt guess.

Anthony responds almost immediately with _yeah thought so no worries we got this sorry for making him get on stage is he ok??_ Sebastian half-smiles, a phantom twist of emotion. Anthony adores Chris. Everyone adores Chris. Chris must know that; he hopes Chris knows that, at least. Must be a good feeling.

He reassures Anthony that Chris is more or less fine, just needing space to breathe, not blaming him at all. The tone might come out a bit terse; Sebastian does in fact blame Anthony for the whiteness of Chris’ face. Chris won’t, of course, because Chris is a good person. Which is fine, because Sebastian’s thoroughly willing to hold grudges on his behalf. The city rushes around them, whipping wind and blinking lights, beyond the car window.

 _Sorry,_ Anthony apologizes again, sounding suitably chastened. Sebastian doesn’t bother with a reply.

He does return the phone. Chris blinks. “When did you…”

“Juvenile delinquent skills. I’m an excellent pickpocket. We’re home, come on.”

He means to run around to the other side and offer a hand--Chris does seem more coherent, but that doesn’t mean he’s not feeling off-balance and clearly drained--but pauses. He knows that Chris is strong and capable and heroic; would the assistance be insulting? Would it even be desired, if Chris is feeling better? It’s not as if Sebastian’s actually any good at support, and--

Chris gets out of the car just fine on his own. Of course he does.

But he comes around to where Sebastian’s standing irresolute beside his own open door, and his shoulders’re wide and curious as they block the wind. “Sebastian?”

“...yes?”

“Home, you said.”

Sebastian stares at him, and then just opts for, “Your home, yes?” because deflection is a necessary talent when his brain’s decided to give his emotions away.

“You said we were home,” Chris says, “I heard you,” and reaches out a hand. Sebastian takes it--Chris might need the anchor, might be asking, and he can’t refuse if Chris is asking.

Chris’ fingers are cold. He folds his own around them, trying to share warmth.

In Romanian, Nikolaj snaps, “Get in the damn building, you are a very obvious target standing out here, both of you.”

Chris asks, “What was that?” without letting go. “Does he not want me touching you?”

“He didn’t say anything about that,” Sebastian says, “he wants us someplace marginally more defensible,” and Chris smiles a little and says “Oh.”

They go inside. Out of the nighttime chill. Still holding hands.

Chris’ apartment is golden-hued and messy and full of life, a recognizable sanctuary of half-finished sketches and pizza-boxes and thank-you notes from nieces and nephews stuck to the fridge. The familiarity, the humanity, takes some of the invisible weight off Sebastian’s shoulders and puts it away in a corner with the empty beer bottles: not gone, but set aside to be handled later. He recognizes that feeling, though he hasn’t got a name for it. Dangerous. Desirable. Like belonging.

Nikolaj casually wanders around the windows, checking locks for tampering attempts. Chris holds up an arm, regards his wrinkled floor-dusty suit and his self critically. Makes a face. “I feel all...sweaty and kinda gross...like I need to shower...will you, um, stay? If I shower?”

“Of course.” If this is Chris stepping back, putting space between them in the wake of uncomfortable intimacy, then that’s what Chris needs. Sebastian understands that need. Too well.

And Chris looks relieved, like maybe he’s feeling that lifted weight too. Boulders creaking down into pebbles. “Thanks. I mean not just thanks. I mean thanks--for everything, God, you don’t even know. But also--I want you to stay. If you want.”

Sebastian, lost in the sincere tired blue of those eyes, nods.

“Okay,” Chris says, very softly, and lifts a hand, lets it hover--like he’s about to touch Sebastian’s cheek, to reach for him and cup his face in that broad palm--but in the end only smiles more, and goes.

The shower flips on a few seconds later. Sebastian hasn’t managed to move. Riveted to the spot. In Chris’ living room. Caught by a touch that wasn’t even a touch, spellbound.

Nikolaj says, “He normally takes seven and a half minutes in the shower,” in a tone that suggests that such knowledge is wholly ordinary.

Sebastian, shaken loose from the spell by this bizarre comment, whips his head around to stare that direction. “Why are you telling me this? Why do you _know_ this?”

Nikolaj makes an _I am surrounded by idiots_ expression at him. “If he takes longer than ten minutes, you may wish to check on him. Anxiety is unpredictable.”

Sebastian closes his mouth, belatedly. After a minute, remembers to nod. He means _thank you._

Nikolaj rolls his eyes and goes back to checking the locks. Sebastian breathes, shoving down the bizarre uninvited lump in his throat, and goes out to the kitchen.

The kitchen isn’t large, but it’s lived-in and homey; Chris doesn’t cook much but does eat, and Sebastian has to smile upon discovery of the happy bunch of bananas on the counter. They beam back, yellow as sunshine and eager to be made into sandwiches again if need be. He ponders that idea, turning it over in his head. He’s not sure whether Chris will be hungry--is that an aftereffect? will Chris need protein? sugar? energy?--and he checks the clock, keeping an eye on time.

Hot chocolate, perhaps. What Chris had done for him when he’d been in shock. Sweetness in a bitter world. Heat and sugar. And certainly there’re enough choices; his bodyguards’ve evidently stocked Chris’ shelves with mint and raspberry and double-chocolate and instant and gourmet varieties. He can handle hot chocolate, maybe. He can also not think about why his bodyguards might’ve done this, because that doesn’t make any kind of sense unless they want him to spend more time here, though Chris’ apartment is no doubt less bruise-inducing and less drug-saturated than some other options for Sebastian’s evenings, so maybe they do want him here and the chocolate’s an inducement to that end.

Either way, he can take advantage of this attempt at behavioral influence for Chris’ benefit. He looks at his hands for a second. They look like his hands: unremarkable, long-fingered, dexterous with a throwing-knife or a glass of priceless scotch or ivory and ebony piano-keys or the lines and planes of a man’s body. They feel lighter, restless, relieved, unsettled and unmoored and giddily triumphant.

He opts for instant but extra-rich double chocolate because he isn’t sure how Chris feels about exotic flavors, and strips off his suit jacket and rolls up his sleeves and goes determinedly looking for milk.

He’s nearly done by the time Chris comes in--eight minutes and forty-two seconds later--and he’s focused on stirring chocolate into the third mug, so it’s only a lifetime of well-honed reflexes that lets him pick up Chris’ step. He turns.

Chris is wearing sweatpants and a soft-looking Patriots t-shirt. His hair’s damp from the shower and standing up like he’s run fingers through it. His expression’s nervous and shy and embarrassed and hopeful and painfully wide open, a whole host of emotion running free across his face. He’s bathed in overhead light from the kitchen and framed by the living room space behind him, and he’s barefoot and wonderful.

Sebastian, standing in the kitchen with his dress-shirt sleeves shoved up and tie undone, accidentally splashes cocoa onto his thumb. He feels dizzy.

“Um.” Chris scratches at the back of his neck, awkward. “Guess I kinda fell apart…”

Sebastian meets his gaze. “You didn’t.” He means: you listened when I asked you to breathe with me, you held my hand, you leaned on me when you needed to. His hands seem to’ve frozen around ceramic mug-heat.

Chris says his name. Sebastian tries to recall how to breathe.

Chris comes over and touches his hand and moves it away from the mug. “You made three?”

“I...thought...if one didn’t come out right...or if it did then Nikolaj could have one.” There’s a startled-sounding derisive snort from the other room, which they ignore. The words are just words. Sounds. Not even close to the quivering yearning nameless impulse underneath. But Chris’ words’re like that too: they both know, he thinks dazedly. How simple and how hard this is, saying things, saying everything. “Are you feeling...I don’t know how to say it...better?”

“I think so, yeah.” Chris curls fingers around Sebastian’s, testing, tentative, as if finding an anchor to steady them both in uncharted waves. The air trembles with cocoa-dusted revelation: every last layer of pretended disinterest and formerly-assumed roles stripped away, selves laid bare and exposed. “Tired. Feelin’ kinda inadequate. Grateful. The usual. But kinda not the usual, ’cause…”

“Because…”

“Because you were there.” Chris adjusts weight, closes distance between their bodies. Not abruptly, not enclosing, giving him space to move or draw back if need be. Sebastian doesn’t move. His body’s lit up with the nearness of Chris.

“Because you got me through it,” Chris says. “Because--we did do this, didn’t we. We got it done. Tonight.”

“It was a good night,” Sebastian whispers. Chris is still holding his hand, but has brought other fingers up, settled them briefly on his shoulder, and is presently wandering them over to his jaw, touching his cheek: infinitesimally languishingly slow, step by step by step.

“It was,” Chris murmurs. “Despite, y’know. Me.”

“You did it,” Sebastian says. “We did it. That’s...we did something.”

“Something good.” Chris traces a feather-light thumb over Sebastian’s cheekbone. Sebastian, enchanted by this new sensation, closes his eyes.

“Hey.” Chris’s voice sounds elated, eager, but concerned as well. “Please look at me? If you can. I can’t do this if--if you’re just lettin’ me do it, I can’t--I need to know you want to kiss me, please, because you made us hot chocolate and you called this place home and I really fuckin’ want to kiss you but--”

Sebastian opens his eyes. Says, “ _Da_ \--I mean yes--oh, fuck English--” and lunges forward and presses his lips against Chris’.

Chris makes a small surprised noise and kisses back. Not demanding, not forceful. Enthusiastic, undeniably so; but gentle, considerate, even romantic. He smells like soap and hot water and his lips are warm and the beard’s slightly scratchy and delicious. Sebastian doesn’t stop to think because if he does he’ll have to realize every last ramification of what he’s doing. He’s got old bruises under his suit and fingers shivering with the aftermath of a public concert and Chris’ hand is hot and astonished and astonishing, cupping his face. Chris is walking and talking and upright and breathing again and that’s good and the world’s full of chocolate-scented weightless deliverance from fear and Sebastian just wants this. He just wants Chris.

Chris folds arms around him. Crowds him closer, surrounded by desire. The corner of the kitchen counter’s digging into Sebastian’s left hip, but even that feels brilliant, a tangible anchor of perfect imperfection. This is real, Chris kissing him.

Chris kisses like a gentleman at first, considerate and leisurely and suggesting rather than taking. Sebastian whimpers a little. Tries to throw himself deeper into the kiss, tries to chase Chris’ mouth and shamelessly plead for roughness, tongue and teeth, claiming, more more more, undeniable.

“Shh,” Chris murmurs, hands steadying him, “shh, it’s okay, we’re okay, you’ve got me and I’ve got you, we’ve got time, no rush,” and licks at his bottom lip, playful. Sebastian knows this is wrong, knows he ought to argue--there is no such thing as time, not for them; he’ll have assignments with more stone-faced men in a blur of smoky nights and Chris will someday soon walk away from him into sunlight, face turned to the future--but Chris starts doing delectable things with that artist’s mouth and liquid fire ripples through his body and the objections fly out the window.

Chris pulls back. Not far, hands remaining on Sebastian’s hips, bodies aligned and touching everywhere. Eyes grave and fond. “Were you gonna say something?”

“I don’t remember,” Sebastian whispers. It’s a lie, but only a small white one. “Please don’t stop.”

Chris’ eyebrows fly up. “Please, huh? You mean that? You want this?” His hands bite down a fraction more, weight in the grip. The strength of him is palpable through thin expensive suit-fabric, and Sebastian’s intoxicated and craving more.

“I mean it,” he says, because Chris is taking this question seriously, as if Sebastian’s consent is the center of the universe here and now. Sebastian’s consent has never been terribly important to the universe on previous occasions, but Chris thinks it ought to be, and so: Sebastian’s heart wants to give him the truth, no matter how unimportant that truth may be. “I like kissing you, _cățeluș.”_

Chris laughs, joyous and reassured. “You said please. Highness. And you made hot chocolate.”

“Which I’ve never done before.” So many things I’ve never done before, he thinks. With you. “I apologize if it’s terrible.”

Chris narrows eyes, leaves one proprietary hand on Sebastian’s waist, hoists the closest mug with the other.

“That might be--”

Chris finishes off half of the mug in one gulp. Grins. “Awesome.”

“--very hot, I was going to say. Is your tongue all right?”

“My tongue is awesome,” Chris says. “And this is also awesome. Like chocolate. Which is awesome. You’re bad for my vocabulary.”

“I’m...sorry about that. Are you, though? All right?” He looks at Chris’ eyes. Thinks about Chris alone in the shower, trying to get warm, scrubbing away vertigo and sweat and shakiness. “Tell me what you need. I can get it for you.”

“I know you can.” When Chris says it the words don’t come out either condescending or speculative; Chris doesn’t think in terms of how much he can get out of a mob kingpin’s only son. Only takes another sip of hot chocolate, eyes level. “I was there when you got the weird cronut things delivered for the entire school that time. Did you have any? Of this?”

“There were also cookies! And...not yet?”

“Go on.” Chris holds up the mug. Holds it to Sebastian’s lips, in fact. Sebastian nearly protests, but doesn’t in fact _want_ to protest, a comprehension which knocks him witless for a few important seconds.

Chris, scrutinizing his face, lowers the cocoa. “Not okay?”

“No. I mean yes. I mean you can. I’ve--” I’ve what? Done worse? Knelt naked at a woman’s feet throughout dinner and been hand-fed scraps, so she might have the privilege of boasting about once having been given the royal whore as a toy? His father’d thought that lieutenant had deserved a reward, that night. He can’t recall why. He says, “I don’t want to think about that,” which he means, but which Chris plainly misunderstands, letting go of him, stepping back, setting the mug purposefully back on the counter, gazing at him, distressed.

Sebastian gives up on trying to explain. Simply picks up the mug and puts his lips right where Chris’ had been, and finishes off the hot chocolate in one hopefully impressive swallow.

His mouth tingles with heat and richness and cream. With the memory of Chris’ kiss.

He looks up. Finds blue artist's eyes looking at him.

“Not terrible,” he admits, and his voice comes out strangely soft to his own ears, “after all.”

“Absolutely not terrible.” Chris picks up his hand. Brings Sebastian’s fingers to his lips. Kisses them lightly, a promise, a dandelion-fluff vow across skin and knuckles and bones. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want me to do. I never want to do that, okay? So maybe we just start kinda slow, and you stop me if there’s anything you--what you just said, anything you don’t want to think about, no matter what, even if you think it’s not important, I’ll listen?”

Sebastian, left mute in the face of this flame-bright compassion, so purely focused on him, can only nod.

“Okay,” Chris says again, tone anticipatory and cautious but spilling over with desire, “okay--” and reels him in.

They end up in the bedroom, that space of messy dark blue sheets and undone laundry in the corner and secure fortress walls. Nikolaj’s on the phone out in the other room; Sebastian can’t quite hear what he’s saying, maybe a summons for more overnight security, maybe discussions about lurking background Russians, maybe checking in with Marcus about this change in the status quo. His father won’t approve, as usual, but that’s in the category of things he’s not thinking about, not now.

He’s had enough practice being reckless when nothing matters. This one time he can be reckless when something does.

They fall into bed in a tumble of long limbs and lips meeting, separating, finding each other anew. Sebastian runs fingers through Chris’ shower-fluffy hair and smiles; Chris nuzzles beard-scruff into Sebastian’s throat and earns a yelp of ticklishness which melts into a sigh at further attention to that spot. Sebastian slides hands up under Chris’s t-shirt, exploring the narrowness of his waist, the muscles of his back. Chris touches the buttons of Sebastian’s no longer crisp dress shirt, a question; Sebastian nods again and lets Chris undo the tiny row of fasteners, revealing him.

Chris’ eyes get darker with an emotion that’s not arousal at the evidence of dwindling bruises and rope-marks, the festive yellows and greens and blues and purples from that bondage party of two nights previous. Sebastian shakes his head, tightness in his throat, and takes Chris’ hand, brings it to his cheek, closes his eyes, breathing. Chris kisses his shoulder. They’re here. Together.

Chris doesn’t push, and his hands don’t stray much below the waistband of Sebastian’s suit-trousers. He’s meant the words about going slow, apparently, but that’s all right. The night’s unhurried and dreamy, unfolding like weary rose-petals after a storm. The nervous energy’s transmuted into a kind of drawn-out yielding languor, an alchemy of hands and breaths and bodies rocking together. Chris is worn out from the anxiety and the emotions, Sebastian’s shaky from the performance and the panic and the taste of hot chocolate, and while his body’s extremely interested in more, cock shockingly hard and stirring every time Chris moves against him, there’s no urgency to the need. He’s learning a new kind of want, unfulfilled and voluntary, heartwrenchingly welcome and sweet in the ache.

And he has so many long-rehearsed techniques, bedroom skills, a complete repertoire from the only job he’s ever been good at. Some of those responses are instinctive by now: reading what Chris desires and how Chris reacts, and tailoring his own reactions to match; likely never _not_ an instinct, he thinks half-coherently, not after so long. But he can’t help that. And with Chris he does mean every gasp, every sigh, every arch upward into gentle caresses.

With Chris the rehearsal’s finally become real.

Chris kisses him again, mapping out every inch of offered territory and responses across various terrain, hands kneading his ass, wandering along a thigh. Sebastian winces involuntarily as bruises make themselves known, throbbing dully even under affectionate hands; Chris stops and murmurs, “Sorry,” accent like a Boston-Harbor shipwreck tragedy. Chris is hard too, the weight of him hot and insistent through sweatpants, but is refraining from doing anything much about it. “Still good?”

 _“Da._ Yes. Still...good.” Good isn’t the word. There are no words.

“Yeah, I got yes and no, I think, you don’t need to translate that one. Unless I’m wrong, or there’re, like, nuances or something, then totally tell me, I wanna know.” Chris balances on one elbow, strokes hair out of Sebastian’s face. Their eyes meet. And Sebastian understands, blindingly clear: I love you.

I love you, Chris Evans. Your big hands and your kindness and your laugh and your smile. Your art and your heart and the way it sees the world. The way you see me, and that isn’t real, I’m not that person, but you make me wish I could believe I might be. Because you see it. I love you.

He knows that love means vulnerability. Of course he knows. But no one else ever has to know. And the sheets are body-heated and blue as midnight when he glances down, unable to meet those generous eyes.

He can have this one thing, he can fold it up and keep it hidden down in the crumpled-paper crevices of his heart and never speak it aloud. He can do that forever, and it’ll be enough if he’s just allowed to know it’s there, this feeling. Surely he can have that much. If he promises to keep Chris protected, if he bargains with the universe to never ever reveal the secret. Please. _Please._

“Please what?” Chris’ fingertips nudge his chin, lifting, coaxing. “Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean--I’m sorry if I did. Or did I say something stupid, because you know I kinda do that a lot, sorry about that too. Don’t look at me if you don’t want to, but I’m here if you do want to, I’d like that, okay?”

 _“Ma faci sa visez in culori,”_ Sebastian whispers. You make me dream in color, he thinks. It’s true. It hurts the way that true things do.

“Um,” Chris says plaintively, “I said I figured out yes or no, but…”

Sebastian chokes on a hiccup of unexpected laughter, instantly followed by equally unexpected tears, and subsequently finds himself being cuddled against Chris’ chest as they lie in a tangle of arms and legs and undone clothing in the center of the bed. “I’m all right,” he manages eventually. The words come out squashed into pectoral muscles and a heartbeat. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?” Chris strokes his hair, cradles his head in place. The bed’s serene and supportive beneath them. The night’s cool and joyous and still. “You sound better.”

“I am.”

“Was it something I did? Or…”

“No.” Sebastian wriggles around, tips his head up, lands a kiss on Chris’ chin. “No. You are magnificent. _Magnific._ I am...I feel...better. Good. With you.”

Chris’ arms tighten around him. “Me too. With you.”

The quiet spreads out, then, and suffuses the room with contented gold.

“Sebastian,” Chris inquires drowsily, into his hair.

“Hmm?”

“You did sort of...you told my uncle we were...you were my...did you mean that? What you said.”

“If we could,” Sebastian says, head pillowed on Chris’ chest, memorizing every beat, taking as much as he dares of his own love and putting it into Chris’ hands to hold or tear apart, “if we could, if I could, if I were someone else, if this were some other life in some other universe, yes. I meant it. Yes.”

“What if I want it anyway?” Chris doesn’t dislodge him from his spot, but does tap a finger over his cheek, getting him to look. “What if this is the universe where we _get_ to have this? Somewhere we do.”

“Somewhere. Not here.”

“You _are_ here,” Chris says, “you’re here and I’m here,” and Sebastian whispers, “I thought that, earlier, if that was all I could do I’d at least do that, I’d be here--” and Chris sits up more and kisses him.

Sebastian kisses back. He hopes Chris knows what he’s choosing, then. Whatever that means: to be here. Not a no. A yes. The yes that he wants to give.

They end up face to face, entwined in the middle of the bed, surrounded by seas of navy sheets and forgotten lamplight. Sebastian’s got a hand on Chris’ back; Chris has one arm and one leg draped over him, keeping him unequivocally near. Chris is still wearing his t-shirt and sweatpants; Sebastian’s lost his own shirt and has only unfastened dress pants on, but he’s not cold. He’s listening to the rumble of Chris’ breathing as it slips into the cadence of sleep, and he shuts his eyes, letting the rhythm and the strong arms and the worn cotton under his cheek become his whole world, and moments later he falls asleep too.


	9. I'm With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian right now is tucked up under Chris’ arm, eyes shut, eyelashes long and tranquil across his cheek. He looks tired but peaceful: younger, less cynical, not innocent but momentarily forgetting about harm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a lovely morning, slow sweet making-love, ice-cream dates, and then--
> 
> Boom.
> 
> We're sorry about the cliffhanger. We promise happy endings.
> 
> Chapter title this time courtesy of Avril Lavigne (foundational to the month luni spent in China after high school): _it’s a damn cold night/ trying to figure out this life/ won’t you/ take me by the hand, take me somewhere new..._

Chris wakes up first, which if he’d thought about it he might not’ve expected, and lies in bed just watching Sebastian sleep and trying to stay perfectly still. If he moves even a hairsbreadth, pale watercolor eyes’ll flick open, courtesy of a lifetime of justified paranoia and situational awareness; Sebastian when sober has the reflexes of a panther, and a panther that’s learned ballet and knife-fighting to boot.

Sebastian right now is tucked up under Chris’ arm, eyes shut, eyelashes long and tranquil across his cheek. He looks tired but peaceful: younger, less cynical, not innocent but momentarily forgetting about harm. He’s a study in contrasts against the navy blue pillowcase and sheets: dark hair, fair skin, sharp cheekbones, tempting chin.

Chris smiles a little. Pictures Sebastian from the night before: an underworld prince with worried eyes and rolled-up shirtsleeves, making hot chocolate in Chris’ kitchen. The shirt’s in a heap on the floor, this morning. Chris’ hands know the curves and planes and shapes of his skin.

The bruises, too. He lets his gaze wander. Sebastian seems unbothered by his shirtless state; Chris definitely appreciates the revealed muscle and lean waist and delicious little nipples, but his eyes keep landing on the marks. He knows what rope-burns look like, at least from camping and hiking and rock-climbing trips; not quite the same circumstances, but Sebastian’s obviously been tied up, and extensively so, not in the last day or two but shortly before. He feels his muscles coil and tense in reaction; with effort, he exhales.

If those bruises and marks are true, this is also true: Sebastian held him and talked to him, last night. Walked him through the panic and the airlessness and the sickening drop. Got him to remember how to breathe, and then kissed him like flowers blooming through deep snow.

Sebastian wanted to kiss him. Sebastian saw him coming apart at the seams and didn’t run, didn’t judge him, didn’t gaze at him with disappointment. More like awe. And desire.

He’s certain he hasn’t moved, but the air shifts, or the mattress does. New tension, not his own. Sebastian awakening--and not showing it, gauging circumstances, testing surroundings, flipping through memories of the night and the hands on him. Chris understands. Chris’ heart grieves.

But that’s only a single split second, and then Sebastian’s opening both eyes, calm and untroubled, smiling up at him. No, or almost no, wariness: walls further down than Chris’s ever seen them, willingly so. Pillow-fluff and bed-hair and inquisitive darts of sunshine around window-shades. Happiness.

“Hey,” Chris says, softly.

Sebastian’s smile grows.

“Morning,” Chris adds, just to keep talking, to put words into the air and inadequately express too many emotions.

 _“Bună dimineața.”_ Sebastian’s fingertips walk across Chris’ left bicep, exploratorily. “Good morning, obviously. Though you left out the good, in yours. I assume you implied it.”

Chris grins.

The dusty apartment-clad morning air shimmers: late and lazy and long-lived as a fairytale, drawn-out and hovering.

Sebastian laughs, sudden and wondering, light and true.

“I meant it,” Chris says, “it’s a damn good morning, you _know_ it’s a--” and kisses him through the laughter.

Sebastian kisses back. Readily. With eagerness that’s almost transparent in its honesty: Sebastian’s uncannily skilled in bed, they both know as much, but this is _Chris_ ’ bed. Sebastian _wants_ to be here.

Sebastian’s come to him with bruises and rope-marks and memories of other hands. And has slept beside him, in his arms. Is kissing him now, enthusiastic as Chris’ lips wander over his.

There’re no bubblegum love-songs or sentimental ballads for that kind of courage. There are no _words_.

Sebastian rolls to his back, wraps a long leg around Chris’ waist, nibbles at Chris’ lower lip. Chris murmurs something that’s not even a syllable--he’s distracted, okay--and moves atop him, rocking their bodies together. Sebastian catches breath, eyes shining: he evidently likes the feeling of Chris’ weight. Chris likes that too. Sebastian beneath him, breathless because of him, holding on to him: here with him.

He trails kisses along Sebastian’s throat, over that tempting collarbone, across delectable skin. Beard and lips leave pinkness in their wake; he pauses, touches this new color, somewhere between apology and question. Sebastian grins, impish as the sunshine, and puts a hand into Chris’ hair and tugs him back down.

“Oh,” Chris muses against the pale column of his neck, “really,” and Sebastian wriggles under him at the brush of words over claiming marks, so Chris gives him more: sucking, biting down, a hint of teeth. Enough to bruise, though not badly; Sebastian moans out loud at that one and tips his head to offer better access, back arching.

“You like this?” Chris balances on one elbow, braced atop him; skims a thumbtip over that newborn mark. “You want me to?”

Sebastian nods. Emphatically.

“You can talk,” Chris adds, understanding like a gut-shot that that might be some kind of rule, that there might be rules he doesn’t know, that Sebastian’s been so used to obedience in bed, keeping his partners happy, what if--

But dark royal eyebrows are being amused at him, now. “I know. I wasn’t waiting for permission. I only--”

“What?”

Sebastian’s mouth makes a marvelous annoyed-entertained-astonished shape. Chris wants to kiss it. “...I only forgot I could. Congratulations.”

Chris stares at him, amid blue pillows and late-morning sunbeams; stares at him, and then starts laughing anew, and then Sebastian’s laughing along. The bed quivers with merriment. Sebastian stretches up to kiss him, hands sliding along Chris’ biceps. Chris declares, “ _Such_ a fuckin’ good morning,” and Sebastian laughs some more, and Chris wants to live in this moment forever, eternity in distilled hourglass seconds.

They make love slowly, giddily, sweetly; they make love like dreamers who can’t quite believe their luck at the world turning out real. Chris yanks off his own shirt and throws it someplace across the room; Sebastian runs hands all over him and the tattoos, fascinated and wanting and impatient. Chris knows the feeling. God, he knows the feeling.

He doesn’t want to ask for more than pale bruised eyes want to give. He kisses Sebastian’s chest, stomach, visible hip-bone above unfastened dress-suit trousers. He looks up. Sebastian smiles. Chris touches that waistband, the zipper; Sebastian smiles more.

Sebastian naked is artwork. Long legs, strong thighs, beautiful thick cock in a nest of dark hair between his legs. Bruises here too--they’re fading but visible in morning light--and that doesn’t _not_ matter, but what matters more is the way Sebastian whispers Chris’ name when Chris kisses his inner thigh.

They learn. Together, they learn.

Chris has done this before, but not for quite a while--no money and no time and nothing to offer prospective dates of any gender--and he’s remembering how: how to cup the base of Sebastian’s cock with a hand and get the shaft wet with lips and teeth, and how to angle his head so he can slide all the way down, so he can feel Sebastian filling up his mouth and his throat. Sebastian gasps. Chris pulls off long enough to smirk. Sebastian whimpers something weakly amazed in Romanian. Chris takes him back in, tasting the heat of him, the bittersweet liquid drawn out when Chris’ tongue teases the slit at his tip.

Sebastian does have bruises, and once or twice Chris inadvertently bumps them. Sebastian hisses, inhales air, in pain; Chris stops instantly each time, but Sebastian reaches for him again and again and the third time begs “Please--” in a voice so uneven Chris slides his mouth off that delicious cock altogether and moves back up on the bed and gathers too many shivers into his arms. “You okay?”

“I’m okay,” Sebastian whispers back. “I wanted to touch you. To--I don’t know. Just to feel…”

To feel me, Chris thinks. He understands: maybe not for quite the same reasons, he too can barely believe this is real.

His cock’s granite-hard inside his sweatpants, which he’s not managed to remove; his body’s crying out for more, every rub against cotton a torment, but he shoves that need forcefully away. Sebastian’s in his arms and needing to be held. If that’s as far as they ever go, it’ll be perfect. He tries to shift position, tries to press his erection back down with a surreptitious hand.

Sebastian, who’s breathing unevenly and fast but not in fact crying, notices. Glances up at him. “Were you planning to be naked any time this morning?”

“Um,” Chris says, nervous.

Sebastian takes Chris’ hand. Lifts it to his lips. Kisses it: the back, lingering over knuckles; the palm, a butterfly-wing breath of air. The fingers, which Sebastian takes deep into his mouth, licking at tingling skin, swirling his tongue around joints, making Chris’ brain shut off from pleasure.

Sebastian lets Chris’ fingers slide free with an obscene wet noise, and purrs, “I want you.”

Chris hesitates. One second more.

Sebastian’s eyes soften from blue-glowing flame to gentler affection, plus one more nod. He’s sure. They both are. Never more so.

So Chris nods in reply, and gets up and fumbles through pulling sweatpants off, tripping over fabric, catching himself on the side of the bed, swearing under his breath. Sebastian gets up too and disentangles Chris’ left foot from fuzzy cotton, very obviously keeping the smile tucked away in the corners of that expressive mouth.

“Thanks.”

“Ulterior motives. I want you naked. I want to see you.”

“If you say so,” Chris agrees, and then _is_ naked, shivering a little as his erection bobs in the morning air, stiffening even more--practically on the edge just from cool blue eyes surveying him with evident delight.

He reaches out. Runs a hand through Sebastian’s hair, across his cheek, down to his shoulder: drawing him closer. Sebastian steps into his arms with no pause at all.

Their bodies fit like the best puzzle-pieces, the ones that lock together at the heart of the universe. Chris is taller, though only by an inch or so; Sebastian has longer legs, but ducks his head and fits neatly right under Chris’ chin, breathing hushed puffs of air over Chris’ clavicle. Chris kisses the top of his head; Sebastian kisses the lonely small spot at the base of Chris’ throat that’s always just been waiting to be kissed by those lips at this second. Chris’ heart thumps madly.

Sebastian’s fingers appear out of nowhere--Chris clearly hasn’t been paying enough attention--and curl around Chris’ cock. Chris makes a probably very undignified sound and can’t help shoving his hips further into the grip. Sebastian kisses him again, on the lips this time, hand doing some dazzling things--Chris isn’t even sure what; it’s all kind of mind-blowingly good, and he can’t look because he’s busy kissing back--up and down the shaft, rubbing the head, cupping his balls, pressing a fingertip behind them--

“Oh God--” It’s a groan, as his body takes flight, poised, hovering on the brink. Sebastian does whatever that was one more time, and Chris can’t think, can’t even--

Sebastian pauses mid-kiss to admonish, “Not yet,” and takes the hand away. Chris sags, quivering.

He wants to say _you’re so good_ or _oh God what WAS that_ or just _oh my GOD,_ and in fact he gets as far as opening his mouth, but--

Any of those might be the wrong choice. Of course Sebastian’s good. Sebastian learned how to please men, and learned very well. The sunshine gets a fraction heavier at the reminder.

He says instead, “I, um, didn’t say it, you said it, but I kinda want you too, maybe you noticed?”

Sebastian laughs.

The sunshine turns weightless as gold-dust, as rainbows.

“I noticed.” That fairytale voice glints with happiness. Unadulterated. Present in the now: no where or when or one else admitted. “I like you saying it.”

“I want you.”

“Yes, that, please…” Sebastian bites his lip. “Do you have a...I wouldn’t necessarily ask, but...Father makes me get, ah, check-ups, full physicals, every month, and I did, last week, but two nights ago…” They both flick glances at an intricate daisy-chain of yellow-green across one thigh. The colors gaze back loudly.

Chris takes a breath, lets it go. “Yeah. Okay.” He doesn’t mean okay, not exactly, but--

With Sebastian smiling at him, with Sebastian so bravely obviously shyly hoping enough to say the words: it’s okay.

He’s pretty sure he’s got a condom. He prays he’s got a condom. He vows eternal worship to every deity he can think of, and one of them must be listening, because he has not just one condom but three, and lube, in his sock drawer, miraculously unexpired. He grabs relevant items. Turns around.

And nearly trips over Sebastian. Who’s on his knees on the floor. Who leans forward, remaining on his knees, and wraps that fallen-angel mouth around Chris’ cock.

Chris all but has the orgasm on the spot. There’s an exquisite moment in which he fights for self-control.

Sebastian’s mouth is hot and talented and wet and _incredible_ , doing things that Chris doesn’t even have names for that put his earlier ungainly efforts to shame, but his hand’s reaching out of its own volition and tangling in dark hair and they both groan--

The sound shoots all the way down his spine. He can feel the vibrations shuddering through his cock. The world’s narrowed to Sebastian’s mouth and relentless ecstasy throbbing along his veins.

Sebastian stops. Pulls back just enough for Chris’ cock to pop free, to land sticky across his lips, his cheek. He looks debauched and despoiled and wicked, sweetness smeared with pre-come and saliva and the base messiness of desire. He’s smiling again. Sparkles in those eyes. “I wanted to!”

“God,” Chris breathes, “God, yes, yeah, look at you, so fuckin’ gorgeous, so perfect, you, I can’t even,” and he’s babbling now, not worrying about the right words or any words at all. Sebastian’ll know what he means. Sebastian saved him the night before and saved him the first night they ever met and saves him over and over with every quiet prickly affirmation of faith.

Sebastian rubs his face across Chris’ cock, shameless. Like a kitten with catnip; like he’s intoxicated by the weight and taste and scent of Chris covering him. Chris’ cock jumps and pulses with want, streaking gleaming wetness over his face, his throat, his closed eyelids.

Chris tugs at his hair lightly. “Open your eyes?” Half a question, half a plea, maybe a smallest pinch of command. If Sebastian likes that. The hair-tugging seems to be going well.

Sebastian listens. Instantly. And the sheer joy in that gaze hits Chris like a spear-point of pale sapphire to the heart, as if the sky’s taken form and burrowed home inside his chest.

Sebastian’s cheeks get a little pink, but he doesn’t look away.

“Sebastian,” Chris says, just to say his name.

“Chris.” Sebastian licks the line of Chris’ rigid erection, one long swift sweep of tongue, root to tip.

“Yeah.”

“Yes. Will you fuck me now? And if you ask whether I’m sure about this I shall...I don’t in fact know. Never do that thing you liked so much involving my fingers ever again. No, I liked that too, never mind.” Sebastian grins--still on the floor--and licks him again. One hand sneaks around the back of Chris’ knee as if seeking an anchor. “I’ll think of something.”

“No,” Chris says softly. His hand drifts out of Sebastian’s dark hair, cups the closest fair cheek, cradling Sebastian’s upturned face. “No, I know you’re sure. Me too. I am too.”

Sebastian tips his head into Chris’ hand. They breathe in unison.

Somehow they end up back on the bed, naked and entwined. Bare skin and happy breaths and sweat and more laughter. Hands everyplace, making discoveries, mapping newfound lands. Chris nuzzles beard-burn into Sebastian’s stomach; Sebastian yelps and swats his shoulder and then tries to pull him closer. Chris kisses him, one hand delving between those infinite legs, seeking, asking. Sebastian spreads his legs further in answer.

I want you, Chris thinks. You want me. You said you want me. You said that, about wanting, to me.

He’s so damn lucky. He’s so damn lucky and he’s so in love, he _knows_ he’s in love, he knows he’ll never be the same and he’s grateful for it. He won’t say the words--Sebastian might not believe them, might not want to hear them, might not be ready for any kind of commitment, even one-sided and given with no expectation of return.

Sebastian came home with him, slept in his arms, and wants him. Not an assignment, not an appointment, not a bargaining chip with business associates or a reward for a faithful lieutenant. Sebastian chose Chris.

Chris can only be humbled, holding himself up over Sebastian in his bed, gazing down into shining blue eyes. Can only be honored to’ve been the one present and here when those eyes discovered that they could sometimes want, and choose.

And he’s going to make this so damn good. Everything he’s got. For the man he loves.

He’s got a fingertip teasing Sebastian’s hole, rubbing gently around the rim, coaxing muscles to relax. Sebastian looks up at him, breathing fast but steady, no fear or expectance of hurt at all. Chris eases the finger in, invasion made kinder with lube; Sebastian’s eyelashes flutter. “Chris…”

“Still good?” He’s not going to ask again about certainty and consent, not after that decided affirmation, but he does need to know. Two nights ago those bruises and rope-knots had happened. “Tell me if this hurts. If anything hurts, okay?”

“You won’t hurt me.”

“I don’t want to,” Chris agrees, pressing in deeper, feeling the gradual surrender of muscle around his finger, “which is why I asked. And you’ll tell me.” Sebastian opens up readily for him, as if simply waiting to unfold at Chris’ touch. A second finger, then. Stretching.

Sebastian licks his lips. Stars in his eyes: blue and black and brilliant. “Yes, Chris.”

“Oh,” Chris says, “so good, so good for me,” before he can even think--the words just kind of come out--and he forgets to breathe but it’s okay because Sebastian--

Sebastian’s blushing again, smiling bashfully, eager. Genuine lighting-up at the praise. For Chris.

“Oh,” Chris whispers, in a voice that doesn’t even sound like his. Transported by love. “Oh, look at you--” And he moves fingers, crooks them, strokes them inside Sebastian’s body.

Sebastian gasps. Hips arching. Hands clutching at Chris’ biceps. Cock jumping, dripping wet across his stomach. “Chris-- _te rog, da,_ yes, please--”

“Yeah,” Chris breathes back, “yes,” and watches Sebastian fall apart around him, on his hand, under his touch.

He keeps going until he’s convinced Sebastian’s a heartbeat from climax: shuddering, panting, sobbing his name. Sebastian on the edge is exquisite: made of need and pleas and raw desire, taut thighs and rippling muscle and enormous hazy eyes. Even if it’s practiced--and it must be; Sebastian even in the throes of passion seems to know the perfect angles for light to halo his face, the perfect sounds and sighs and cries of encouragement for his partner to hear--it’s also true, and those truths aren’t mutually exclusive, and anyway he’ll never fault Sebastian for learning what he had to in order to survive his life.

Besides: Chris _knows_ this is true. Beyond question, when Sebastian’s eyes snap open and find his, radiant and glorious.

“Chris,” Sebastian begs, legs shaking, voice shaking, body quivering around Chris’ hand.

“Right here,” Chris tells him, promises, swears to him for eternity; “right here, I’m right here, shh, it’s okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you,” and slips his fingers out and fumbles the condom on and lines himself up and pushes in.

They both go silent. Amazed.

The sunshine splashes tears of wonder across Sebastian’s cheek. Chris regains breath, feeling the momentary resistance and subsequent tremulous yielding of Sebastian’s body around him; he clumsily gets a hand up and strokes Sebastian’s hair, face, eyebrow. Sebastian’s lips part, wordless.

“Seb,” Chris pants. “Sebastian--?”

Sebastian blinks. Once. Purposefully. Then smiles. Like the first-ever sunrise on the first-ever dawn in the first-ever universe.

Chris’d thought earlier about having no words for this. He’s got even fewer now.

Sebastian, who is miraculous and so does have words, inquires, “Chris?”

“Am I--are you--is this okay, are you--”

Sebastian cranes his head up just enough so they’re nose to nose, wiggles hips--Chris’ cock stirs and sinks deeper inside him--and says solemnly, “I want you very much.” His eyes’re dancing. Celebrations in blue.

Chris gulps out, “Oh fuck yeah,” not at all eloquent and far too awed to be audible, and then has to move, has to be in motion, has to show Sebastian just how badly he wants this too, how much this means--

Sebastian moves with him. Flawlessly matching every thrust, every plunge. Gazing up at him as Chris takes him, fills him, loses finesse and slams into him. Sebastian moans, hips lifting to meet the new harder rhythm, murmuring something in a language Chris doesn’t know, looping one lovely leg around Chris’ waist, beckoning him on.

Chris keeps one hand caressing his face, cradling him close. Chris fucks him fast and pounding as the beats of matching hearts, and holds him with shaky tenderness, eyes meeting and tangling and holding too.

At that searing collision of gazes, he feels his hips jerk--so close, so good, lights racing down his spine and out to his toes and everyplace--but if he’s about to lose control he’s going to make sure with his last rational thought that Sebastian gets there first. He shoves a hand between their bodies. Grips Sebastian’s cock, flushed and rigid and spilling pre-come between their bodies. Strokes, awkward and hasty and in love.

Sebastian sobs his name. Chris draws back, thrusts in once more--aiming for that spot--and whispers, “So good, God, you’re so--come for me, come on, let go--”

Sebastian does. Stiffening under him, mouth open, head thrown back: gorgeously abandoned to ecstasy.

Chris, kicked abruptly over the edge by that sight and the clenching of slick tight muscles around him, follows. Enraptured. Waves of billowing bliss. Perfection.

Eventually he comes back down to Earth, dizzy and euphoric and breathless as if he’d just run ten marathons. Sebastian’s lying under him, chest going up and down, eyes slightly dazed and a bit incredulous and above all happy.

“Hey,” Chris whispers, nudging that beloved nose with his.

“Hi,” Sebastian whispers back, eyes and smile brimming over. “Good morning.”

The world overflows with laughter, then. Pouring out like rivers breaking dams and gushing past long-dry banks, like sunlight soaking naked skin.

Neither of them asks about certainty or regret or pain. No need. Only hand-holding, traded kisses, touches, caresses as Chris eases out and pulls off the spent condom, as he sprints back and gathers Sebastian into his arms for a wordless while, as they run together to the shower and take turns washing each other’s hair and sketching lopsided hearts in soap on steam-pink shoulders.

They get out of the shower. And then they get back into the shower, because Sebastian steam-flushed and towel-wrapped and dripping seductive trails of water over pale golden skin is irresistible.

Chris shoves him face-down over the bed as his towel falls undone--not without checking, glances exchanged and smiles lighting up the room--and fucks him again that way, naked and shower-warm and bent over across rumpled blue sheets and mischievous sunlight. Sebastian stretches a hand out; Chris grabs it and twines their fingers together, and they come simultaneously, shared peaks and cuddles after.

They get out of the shower the second time and curl up in bed because Sebastian’s obviously hurting from too much use now and equally obviously not regretting it but needing softness nevertheless. They curl up in bed naked and hold each other: watching cartoons, watching episodes of _Community_ , watching Jim Carrey movies, trading kisses to hair or the corners of mouths. The day falls away in unhurried snapshots: gilded by sun and caught in amber, snatched out of time just for them.

Halfway through the long afternoon, Sebastian’s stomach growls. Chris thinks thoughts about appetite and the last three weeks and Sebastian’s likely diet, and hauls them both out of bed. “Come on. Food.”

Sebastian makes a very plain and plaintive _I don’t want to move from here ever again_ expression at him, floppily resisting tugs at hand and ankle.

“Come on,” Chris says, “Highness, I’m not gonna feed you in bed, you don’t actually want me to cook, my brother tells horrifying stories about the one and only time I tried, come on, up, my treat,” and Sebastian mock-scowls at him, sitting up, tangled in Chris’ sheets and imperious and adorable. “And what makes you think I can’t cook, puppy.”

“Can you?”

“...I’m certain I could if I tried.”

“You probably could. So let’s go out, I’ll buy you lunch. Or dinner. Or high tea. Is that still a thing? Do people have high tea?”

“Now I feel that I should demand clotted cream and scones and cucumber sandwiches.” Sebastian yawns, stretches--Chris openly admires acres of lean muscle and long legs; he’s allowed now, and he kind of has to catch his breath at that comprehension as it lands--and swings elegant limbs out of bed. “I...may not have any clothes.”

They both eye the heap of discarded mutual suit-pieces on the floor.

The afternoon sunshine plays snickering tag with clouds beyond Chris’ window.

An pointed knock resounds on the bedroom door, followed by, “Check the bottom dresser drawer,” in a voice that suggests Nikolaj thinks they’re both morons for not having done so already.

“Oh God,” Chris whimpers, and slowly tries to cram his whole hand into his mouth, “he was hearing all that...when I...when you…when we...”

“He’s heard worse.” Sebastian opens the drawer in question, after a brief flick of eyes at Chris to make sure this’s all right. “Ah. I...do you know, I have no idea when this happened.”

Huh. Jeans. Not Chris’ jeans. Black and skinny. A couple of slim white t-shirts. A pair--Chris suddenly feels a blush burning across his cheeks, inexplicable given where his mouth’s lately been--of black silky boxer-briefs. Sebastian regards this find with indecipherable equanimity. “They must’ve thought this was inevitable. But...”

“But?”

“But they’ve never done this before. A change of clothes. They never...well, I suppose I only had my suit, last night, but…”

But they love you, Chris thinks. But I love you. And your bodyguards didn’t want you to wake up and have nothing to wear but a stylish evening suit, when you leave, whenever you leave.

“Well.” Sebastian sits back on heels, naked and unabashed. Reaches a hand out his direction. “I shall have clothes for our high tea date, then.”

Chris takes the offered hand. Laughs, smiles, ducks his head to hide sudden watery tendencies, kisses the back of said hand. A date. Yes.

The sun’s out, but the air’s brittle, bracing and gooseflesh-nipping. Chris plops an old cardigan--dark blue and too dryer-shrunken for his shoulders these days--onto Sebastian’s startled head. Sebastian pulls it on and manages to instantaneously magically transform Chris’ unfortunate prepster fashion choices into alluring naughty schoolboy fantasies. Chris nearly hauls him back to bed on the spot.

Food. Right. He can behave.

They run downstairs and out the door hand in hand. They find a Korean barbeque food truck for protein, and then they lick spicy sauce off each other’s lips. They scamper down the street to a conveniently located ice-cream parlour, old-fashioned shiny soda-fountains and all, because Chris’d promised ice-cream once before and Sebastian does love sweets and those wintery blue eyes get enthralled the second Chris mentions blueberry-chocolate-swirl crumble.

Chris, who is not generally a dessert-eating person--other than maybe jellybeans, something about the concentrated fruit-flavored sugary texture, he can eat those by the handful--tries to demur. Sebastian gives him a wounded-kitten sort of look. Chris ends up ordering something with cotton-candy stripes and sprinkles mixed in, and, okay, it’s pretty good as far as fake-sugar discerning palates can tell, and they share bites while commenting on the contrast of flavors, making all the Top Chef bullshit up, laughing, kissing ice-cream melt away even before it exists at the corners of mouths.

Sebastian lets him pay. Maybe this is a date, maybe this is simple arithmetic: Sebastian not wanting his father or the Circle to know. Either way, Chris’ heart feels warm and fortress-like and protective. Sebastian, eating ice-cream on his dime. Because he’s bought it for them.

The evening’s tiptoeing in as they meander down narrow branch-hung New York streets, heading back to the apartment. Light’s making friends with dusk, nice and easy, no rush. Chris’ building shimmers in greys and indigos and primrose hues. Idle and old-boned and loose and comfortable.

They take the stairs, not the creaky half-broken elevator; they trade laughter and sugar-flavored flirtations under sputtering lamplights. Home. They’ve both said it. Yes.

They walk in the apartment door--Nikolaj appears out of nowhere to go in ahead and flip on lights, as usual, and Chris is getting semi-used to that specific usual with that specific sarcastic glare--and they shut it behind them and Sebastian turns, smiling; turns and loops arms around Chris’ neck right there in the main living room. The borrowed cardigan falls soft over his arms. “So. I’ve never done this before. Tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Chris pets his hair, snakes an arm around his waist. Possessive, protective even if that’s a fantasy. “What do you want?”

Sebastian arches eyebrows. “As if you don’t know. But...yes, all right, we’re coming home, we’re back home for the night and perhaps presently overcome by lo--lust--”

The door slams open again.

Five dinosaurs masquerading as human mob enforcers thud in. Ski masks and heavy boots. No amateur waffling; straight ahead as the door crashes into the defenseless wall.

Nikolaj’s in front of both Chris and Sebastian in an eyeblink. Sebastian steps forward, putting himself shoulder to shoulder with his head bodyguard, both of them now in front of Chris. Nikolaj scowls at him and shoves him back, so they end up in a mutually cranky protective line that seems designed to shield Chris at the rear. Chris tries exasperatedly to _see_.

The lumbering muscle-mountains glance at each other. The one in front makes a gesture: the other four look straight to Chris, and then over at Sebastian, and then at Nikolaj, and then at their leader again.

Their leader sighs. Tilts his head. Some kind of hand signal. The men charge.

Sebastian’s looking at Nikolaj too, at the hand poised over but not drawing a pistol, and Sebastian’s face is confused but then muscles lunge their way and there’s no time--

Smashing. Violence. Pain. It all happens at once.

Bodies crash together and grunt and swing. Chris ducks--gymnastic training coming in handy--and flails. He can’t see Sebastian. Too many human barricades.

The walls of muscle punch and block and pin him effortlessly. He catches a fleeting glimpse of Nikolaj. Backed up between the craggy shape of the leader and the living-room wall.

He dodges, thanks his mother for ballet reflexes, steps back. He’s being driven toward the door. The exit.

Sebastian’s fighting too. Blow for blow, hand to hand. Chris tries to stagger that way and help. His end table gives way in a clatter of sketches. Kicked by an intruding foot. Splinters across the world. Menacing lurching toward him, like the display of prowess should be intimidating, and it is. The bald man headed his way leers.

The periphery of his vision changes. Sebastian. Trying to get closer. Deflecting blows without countering much. Moving, letting himself be moved, toward Chris.

Some bizarre analytical artistic section of Chris’s brain notes that Sebastian fights with the same understated grace evident in his walk, sinuous lines and shapes and flexibility. Not innate, but learned; Sebastian moves like someone who’s been trained since childhood to fight for his life in the face of kidnapping or assassination attempts. Chris, with approximately zero fight training but a lot of drama-trained flexible muscle, settles for throwing punches when he can and appreciating the form in spare seconds.

The appreciation’s a distraction. The large man behind him attempts to put a sack over his head.

Chris ducks, but gets captured along the way. Sebastian whirls his direction. A thin metal ribbon flickers through the air. Buries itself in the throat of the guy compressing Chris’s arms.

Their eyes meet. For a second: for one single second.

The throw’s left Sebastian’s shoulder exposed. The gorilla he’s been fighting lands a blow. Sebastian’s arm visibly goes limp, falling odd and wrong, grace fractured. The man hits him again. And again, clearly angry over the well-placed knife in his comrade’s neck.

One of the others yells something. A rippling melodic language. An admonishment.

Sebastian’s head snaps that way. Abrupt. Shocked.

Chris attempts to ask--does Sebastian recognize the language, the order, something about the voice?--but can’t, because a fist smashes into his chin. Not quite enough to knock him out, but enough to make him see stars, world swimming.

He does see Sebastian fighting back, desperate and furious, kicking and scratching, one-handed; the human slab of beef gets an arm around his throat and squeezes until motions slow and inevitably horrifically cease. Chris tries to scream.

He can’t scream, because they shove the bag over his head and smack him hard enough to make his ears ring, and haul him out the door. He stumbles in shadows and burlap breaths. Staggers to his knees. Rough hands pick him up.

Sebastian--oh God no--

He can barely stand. Not only from the fight. From that final image.

Did they take Sebastian too? They must have, they must have because otherwise--

They _must_ have taken Sebastian, because they must know who he is, they have to know; this can’t be about Chris, Chris is nobody--

Sebastian fighting, sliding toward the floor, bleeding and battered, one arm sacrificed to save Chris. Sebastian going horribly limp with that monster’s arm across his throat. Sebastian--

What if Sebastian’s _dead?_ What if that was part of the plan, what if--

“Please,” he tries to plead. “Sebastian--” A hand hits him again, in the dark of the sack. He doesn’t give up. He says Sebastian’s name. He begs them to tell him what happened. He begs for an answer. Please. Please.

The blackness is violent, and painful, and absolute.

 

Sebastian wakes up gradually and agonizingly. Hurt. Hardness. A floor under him. Solid ground; okay, he’s woken up worse places. He’s also woken up better places. A floor, when did he--why is he on the floor, was the night _that_ blackout-inducing, who--

He opens both eyes. Honey-oak wood, the corner of a distressed couch, a tipped-over table. Chris’ apartment. _Chris_. Oh no, _no,_ Chris, and he couldn’t stop it, he couldn’t--

He tries to bolt upright, stifles a shriek as his right arm folds under the shove, and lands back on the floor. Nikolaj’s hands and knees and apprehensive expression swing into view. There’s a single bruise on his forehead, but otherwise the head bodyguard seems uninjured. “You’re awake.”

“Chris--”

“They took him. Can you sit up?”

“More or less…” The room wavers, but steadies. He’s felt worse after extended weekends with certain business associates. When he puts his other hand down, something slim and metallic skitters away from clumsy fingers. He picks it up. His spare secondary knife. “Did I...one of them…”

“It was a very good throw. I don’t know whether he’s dead. How do you feel?”

“About the throw? I should’ve made sure.” He’s never killed anyone before. He’s never even tried to. But Chris had been in danger. He can still see those huge panicked eyes, the wild punches, the struggle, the terror for them both…

He doesn’t regret that knife-throw. Maybe he’s a terrible person, but that’s not news. Certainly not to anyone who knows him. And if he’s going to consign himself to perdition for anyone it’ll be for Chris, who deserves a shield, who deserves safety, who deserves to never have to know the depths of the dark places of the world.

Sebastian can and will fight in the dark places. For Chris.

Nikolaj touches his shoulder. The numbness has departed, but it’s been replaced by relentless pins and needles. Sharp ones. Dug in deep and not looking to give up soon or potentially ever. “Are you able to move it?”

He lets the pain show. Chin quivering. Eyes wet and wounded. “It _hurts_.”

Nikolaj hisses angrily between teeth. “Let me see--”

Sebastian moves. Nikolaj’s older and stronger and has years of training. Sebastian’s got the element of surprise plus pure rage. The tip of his second-favorite knife digs into his oldest bodyguard’s jugular. _“Where is he?”’_

“I don’t--”

“They spoke Romanian. They were my father’s men. You made a phone call. Last night. You knew.”

“I did not--”

“Five seconds.”

Nikolaj, on his back on the floor, makes no move for a weapon. His hands stay visible. Relaxed. Apparently defenseless. Sebastian knows better. “ _Four_ seconds.”

“I knew they had a plan. I did not know when. Or where. You were not meant to be harmed. Christopher--”

“What _about_ Chris?” More pressure on that knife. A single droplet of blood, welling up. Staining skin.

“You needed to know,” Nikolaj says, not quite unruffled. “You both needed to know what might--”

“What might happen?” Sebastian has to laugh. Not amused. Bitter as the needles. “Whether someone might use this against us? Might _betray_ us?”

“I truly thought they only meant to frighten you.” Nikolaj’s voice remains even. “I did not know about this part of the plan. I would have warned you. You have my word. You have always had my loyalty.”

“Fuck your loyalty.” The knife doesn’t lift. He’s thinking fast.

“As you say.” Niklolaj closes his eyes. “I taught you five ways to kill a man with a knife, you remember? Make this one clean.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Sebastian rolls to his feet. Flips the knife into his other hand. Flexes fingers, testing his regained range of motion through pain. “I believe you.”

Nikolaj, lying immobile on Chris’s apartment floor, looks uncertain for the first time.

“I mean it,” Sebastian says. Knife in sheath, sheath in pocket. Dwindling evening sunset light on his hand and shoulder. “I’m not happy about it. But I mean it. I know why you would. I know you don’t know where they are. Guess.”

Nikolaj sits up. The expression in his eyes is difficult to read. Complicated. “My best guess...somewhere not easily identifiable, and stereotypically intimidating, for Christopher’s benefit...one of the warehouses in the shipping yard. The soundproofed ones.”

“We’ll start there. Do you have spare guns?”

“Naturally.” Nikolaj’s on his feet now, a motion that’s simultaneously fluid and somewhat startled. “Are you badly injured? Your arm--”

“Is fine. We’re going after Chris.” He glances around the apartment: sketchbooks and guitar-strings, a half-drawn campaign poster propped against the wall, a pile of Disney movies by the television set. We’ll get him back, he promises silently. A vow to unfinished drawings and uncompleted stories, as they gaze at him. We’ll bring him home. “You said they were ordered not to hurt me, and they won’t kill him. They’ll want to scare him. That’s our advantage.” He doesn’t add _I’m entirely willing to kill to get him back, you did teach me, I have never needed that more than now._ Nikolaj knows.

The lingering flavor of cool berry-sweet ice-cream mixes with blood in his mouth. He tongues at the split in his lip. He’d let Chris buy him dessert. Had let Chris hold his hand. Had chosen, and wanted.

And Chris is paying for that choice.

He presses tongue into painful split again. Tasting coppery brightness. He’ll never be anyone other than the person he is. No matter how much he might want to hold Chris’ hand in sunlight and go out on sugar-infused dates to ice-cream parlours.

He’s still wearing Chris’ cardigan. Dark blue and time-worn and smudged from tonight’s fight. One button gone. He glances around. Can’t spot it. Hollowness in his gut. Sick empty space. Like the buttonhole, without its other half.

He’ll never be anyone other than the person he is.

And the person he is is in love with Chris.

Chris had talked about knights in shining armor, once, and fairytales.

He pushes up scuffed sweater-sleeves, one and then the other.

To his oldest and best bodyguard, he says levelly, “You think we don’t know what we’re doing. You’re wrong. We’ve always known. I know what this life is. And he knows me.” More than anyone ever has. More than I ever wanted anyone to, except he found his way into every empty space inside me and I never want him to leave.

Nikolaj, looking at him, says very softly, “Highness,” and bows. Not a mocking half-hearted gesture. Deliberate and formal, here in Chris’s living room amid overturned furniture and fallen-soldier lamps.

Sebastian, uncomfortable with this display of dedicated loyalty, disbelieving, wanting it to be true, shrugs shoulders. Winces at the flare of sparks in the wrong one. Thinks: Chris. Chris, I’m coming. Please know that. That I’m coming for you. No matter what: I will be here for you.

He answers, “Don’t use it. Not for this. You said the warehouses. And I said we’ll start there.”

 


	10. Mad About You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris meets Sebastian's father, Sebastian says the I-love-you, and those Russians turn up...explosively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready?
> 
> Minor warnings for: discussion of Sebastian's previous extremely dubious-consent engagements (Chris would argue that they're non-consensual, especially with drugs involved; Sebastian would point out that he knew the parameters of most assignments beforehand); and also for a tiny bit of...amateur cauterization of wounds, let's say.
> 
> ...just keep in mind, we promise happy endings. Trust us. :D :D
> 
> Title courtesy of Belinda Carlisle this time: _I'm mad about you/ you’re mad about me, babe/ a couple of fools run wild, aren’t we…_

Chris wakes up cranky and sore and tied to a chair. This is not a common occurrence in his experience, and he panics, tries to flail arms, discovers he can’t, and nearly tips the chair over. A hand catches the back. Steadying him.

His arms are tied--expertly, no doubt--behind the back of the chair, which is wooden and splintery, smug at its own successful discomfort. His legs aren’t tied, which is…interesting, but given the shadowy shapes around the room and the lurking hand at his back, he guesses he wouldn’t get far. The sack’s off his head, which is promising, but he’s thinking of his mother now, of Scott, of his sisters--of no escape, of no body, even, he’ll just go missing, never found--they’ll never _know_ , and every awful possibility he’d thought of the first night he’d given Sebastian shelter crashes back through his brain--

No. He’s alive. Which suggests they want him alive. Whoever they are.

He remembers to breathe. For now.

The room itself glowers like every bad mobster-movie cliche. Old wooden table. Single swinging light-bulb. A chair across from him, not yet occupied. Metal walls--aluminum? Some sort of warehouse or storage facility? The place looks like someone’s gone down a Menacing Location Checklist, and Chris cares nothing about the light-bulb or the chair or his own arms, not when he’s here but--

“Sebastian,” he croaks. His throat’s dry. He’s not gagged, so he can talk. “Where is he?”

The shadows don’t answer, but after some rustling a door opens and closes and a man comes in. The light doesn’t reach his face; he’s tall and broad-shouldered, and extremely quiet in motion.

Chris, now that there’s a person, repeats, “Sebastian. And,” he throws in, inspired, “I’m not telling you anything until you tell me what you did with him.” It’s a bluff with no cards--he’s damn sure he can’t stand up to organized well-practiced torture--but maybe it’ll be convincing.

“What we did with him?” Melodic, refined: the same rippling rivers present in Sebastian’s voice but stronger, tides instead of undertones. “Why do you believe you are here?”

“Because of him.” As if the answer could be anything else. He twists his wrists. No give at all. Roughness rubs along his wrists and forearms, stinging. “Or you really want a mostly-broke unknown artist to redecorate your walls.”

The man lets out a breath that sounds genuinely amused, albeit in the manner of an assassin entertained by a kitten pouncing on his shoe; and then he comes over and sits down and leans forward into the light, and. Oh.

The man is Sebastian’s father.

Chris isn’t certain whether or not he’s meant to guess as much, but it’s stamped in their features, in their shoulders. They look--not alike, but similar. Marcus sits in his chair with the casual knowledge that he’ll only have to give any order once to see it obeyed. In Sebastian that aristocratic arrogance’s tempered by self-directed weary cynicism plus hints of wistful wanting like crocuses poking through snow.

They have nearly the same eyes. Cool rare-flower blue, less and more calculating: son versus father.

Chris should probably be intimidated, is intimidated. “Sebastian,” he demands. That’s all that matters. “Is he okay?” And then he adds, “You _fucking bastard,”_ because he’s just realized what Marcus ordered done _to his own son_ and he’s incandescent with rage. “Did you _want_ to hurt him?”

And Marcus’ expression doesn’t crack--mob kingpins must practice that sort of poker face in the mirror--but the impression hangs sudden in the air across the table: Sebastian’s father hadn’t known.

“He wasn’t even conscious,” Chris spits out, twisting the knife. “Your people fucking left him for dead--”

Marcus lifts a hand, cutting him off. Turns, says something liquid and rapid-fire and not-English to the human-shaped shadows. There’s a pause, during which Chris does not talk because he’s furious but not suicidal, and then an answer, tentative as if knowing it won’t be well received.

It’s not. Marcus barks an order, cold as marble. Two shadows stir and detach themselves: given orders, melting away. The head of New York’s Eastern European criminal underworld turns back to Chris, across the table. “How badly was he injured?”

“I don’t know. I think they broke his arm. One of them was having a great time strangling him. Because he tried to protect me.” He glares across the table, anger for anger. Resists kicking the closest table-leg as an outlet, though he’s tempted. “Because you did this.”

Blue eyes narrow. Eerily reminiscent of Sebastian’s suspicious-of-kindness face; not remotely as beloved. “I did not. You made this necessary.”

“No,” Chris retorts. He’d lean forward for emphasis, but he’s tied to a damn chair. “That’s not true and you know it. You did this. To us.”

“You put my son in danger.”

“Your son,” Chris says, breathing evenly, breathing so he won’t scream, “came to _me_ after a party where a man he was afraid of, one of your friends, associates, what the fuck ever, made him take drugs and then had sex with him. When he couldn’t say no.”

“You,” Marcus says, brittle and precise as icicles, “won’t hurt his body. You will break his heart. When you inevitably either die or leave him.”

Chris can’t breathe for a second--that one’s gone home like a blade to the gut--and answers with the truth he’s got. “I won’t leave him.”

“You don’t know--”

“What we’re doing? What I’m doing?” He meets uncanny too-familiar blue eyes dead on. “I saw him then. I’ve seen him after dinner with you. I’ve seen him fight to save kids. To save me. I’ve seen him getting ice cream on his nose and laughing. Yeah, no, I think I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“He--” Marcus pauses. “What flavor?”

“Does it _matter?”_

“You will end up dead,” Marcus says, imperturbable as if commenting on the weather: sunny in New York today, kids, with a chance of murder; “and you will leave him, when you die, alone. This is not your life.”

“And you’re trying to scare me away.”

Marcus raises eyebrows: yes, and?

“Kinda stupid if you’re worried about me leaving him.”

Marcus actually looks like he might not have an answer for that one, which is good because Chris’s brain is busy trying to crawl down his throat and smother his heart and vocal cords. He called the mob kingpin stupid. He called Sebastian’s father stupid. He is going to die _slowly_.

He stares at the single light-bulb as it swings dourly above the table. No help there.

After barely noticeable regrouping, Marcus switches tactics. Devastatingly so. “You care for my son. You believe he cares for you.”

No point in denying it, even if that was a thing he ever in his lifetime wanted to do. Chris nods.

“Consider this. How easily I took you. How simple it would be for someone…not me…to take you. How you will feel when he gives himself up for you, when he bargains with devils for you, when he walks with open eyes into an obvious trap, only to spare your life.”

Chris’ insides shrivel up and knot themselves. He gets out, “Sebastian wouldn’t…walk into…”

“You say he fought for you.” Finishing the decimation. Killing blow delivered right on time. “I believe you. You think that you are being honest, telling me you will not leave him. Perhaps so. Perhaps he feels precisely the same. But you can save him. _If_ you leave him. Leave him in such a way that he will never want you again.”

Chris’ eyes burn. His chest’s tight. The ropes hold him up as they hold him to the chair.

Sebastian _did_ fight for him. That final glimpse had been of air running out. A lifeless arm.

Marcus gazes at him with infinite compassion.

“It,” Chris starts, stops. Licks parched lips. “It’s his choice…our choice…not yours. You’re taking that choice away.”

Marcus doesn’t speak. Keeps watching him. The words, no matter how true, become small and ineffectual beneath the weight of that gaze. His bones ache, constricted by ropes and pain.

Sebastian’d been tied up, bound in ropes, mere nights ago. Before coming to him.

His heart turns inside out, ravaged.

He wants to argue. He wants to stand by Sebastian, who came home with him. Sebastian, who’s tried to protect him. Who’s tried to protect him since that very first rooftop night, encouraging words across bagels and bandages, up to now. To the memory of a body falling limp to Chris’ apartment floor.

He huddles in his ropes under the merciless swinging light, and closes his eyes, and thinks of Sebastian, and courage, and choices.

“You can’t make this decision for him,” he whispers, “for us,” and hears his own words with despair.

 

Sebastian’s arm continues to tingle. Phantom needles jab holes under skin. Feeling stabs its way back into his life. He ignores possible nerve damage with vast resolution and slithers through sundown dimness at Nikolaj’s side.

The docks loom around them. Big blocky containers hulking in tidy rows. Shipping yards, the tang of sea-salt, and bitter briny air. Marcus isn’t even trying to be subtle: guards lurk around the soundproofed row at the back, forming an inner and outer perimeter. Not about hiding strength, not today. But, of course, Chris is locked up in one of those warehouses; Sebastian wonders tiredly about who’s supposedly being intimidated by the guards. Maybe his father’s afraid Chris’ll sneak out through a crack in metal siding.

Nikolaj comes back, having waved his charge into stillness while investigating security. His voice lands on a puff of breath. “We’ll have to fight.”

Really? Sebastian asks, silently. His head bodyguard makes a face. “Too open, on approach. Too many men. Some of whom I’ve trained.”

So they’ll be seen. So they’ll have to handle his father’s thugs. He tracks bodies, the squared-off rows of storage containers, any corners that might provide moments of cover. He feels the weight of his knives, slim and sleek in various pockets. He’s carrying one spare pistol tucked into his jacket, but he’s not practiced with it enough left-handed and he’s not quite up to trusting his right-handed aim.

So. Odds. Not good.

He looks at Nikolaj through fading indigo twilight. He contemplates his borrowed gun again, and his own particular skill set, and then he peeks back at the guards on duty.

And he sighs, pulls out the gun, hands it over--Nikolaj accepts it, startled--and peels off his jacket. Runs hands through his hair, rumpling it up. Does the messy untucked-but-not-entirely-so fashion statement with his shirt. Bites his lips, leaving them pinker.

Nikolaj now looks utterly horrified.

Sebastian makes what he hopes is a _follow me in two minutes and knock out a thoroughly distracted guardsperson_ expression. Nikolaj scowls, which could mean anything or nothing, but refrains from making noise, where they’re crouched behind their chosen warehouse-shelter. Sebastian takes this as assent.

Out from cover, he doesn’t bother hiding. Just strolls lazily up to the henchman he’s picked, a cheerfully muscular young and relatively new admittance to the privilege of his father’s personal detail. He can’t quite recall the man’s name--Andrei, Andrew, Alex?--but big soulful brown eyes get even bigger at the sight of the royal whore appearing out of dusk and sundown.

“Um,” Andrei or possibly Alex says. Either the outer guards’ve not been warned about the exact nature of this situation, or he’s simply confused by conflicting information. “Highness…why are you…are you sure you should…”

“What, be here?” Innocent, but not entirely so; he’s his father’s son, and his father’s men are picked in part for intelligence: pretending complete ignorance would raise red flags. He smiles. His best smile. Disarming. Lethal. Capable of making grown men forget words.

Works here too. Andrei turns a very pretty shade of red.

Sebastian saunters a little closer, feeling the weight of steel in his pocket, inside his clothing, against his ankle. “In fact I should be precisely here. It’s a game, you know. Father.”

“Um…”

“He thinks I care about the American puppy.” Sebastian waves a hand, a move which not incidentally puts him within touching distance. “I allow him to think so. If I couldn’t challenge him at all, what sort of son would I be? --but in any case I think it’s about time to prove how much I care. Or don’t care. By turning up and surprising him. With you.”

“I,” Alex-or-Andrew manages. “You. Um. Shouldn’t I…should I…call someone to take my spot…if you…”

Oh. Damn. Muscular and pretty _and_ conscientious and loyal. Unfair. Sebastian turns up the bedroom eyes. Throws in a lip-lick for good measure. “Perhaps. But if you call someone…they may wish to share. And I imagine you know what a night with me is worth.”

Andrei swallows. Rigidly. “I’ve...heard.”

“I’m sure you have,” Sebastian agrees, and kisses him. Soundly.

This goes on for a while. Andrei’s not a bad kisser, a little shocked at the honor, very willing to be teased and tasted, hands respectful when they tentatively venture into Sebastian’s hair, down along his back, onto his ass. He tastes like cinnamon bubblegum, Sebastian notes idly, and he likes that second technique involving tongue, and…

And he’s asleep. Because Nikolaj’s thumped him solidly on the head. Sebastian catches him, eases him down with gentleness--the man’d been considerate of him first--and grumbles, “Took you long enough.”

“I wasn’t certain it would work. You had to pick the one who isn’t to my knowledge interested in men.”

Sebastian considers this. Then they both look at Andrei or possibly Andrew, as he naps on the cool flat sea-scented bed of the docks.

“Well,” Nikolaj admits eventually, “until you.”

“I _am_ good at what I do.” He’s counting in his head. “Eight minutes--seven and a half--until they check in and rotate positions. From here we can get in through the back, that lock’s a standard industrial version…”

“Lockpicks?”

“Yes, thank you.” He adds, working, “I picked the one who’d give us the best opening as far as getting in without being seen. Ow.”

“Your father,” Nikolaj murmurs, “will no doubt be _very_ surprised. What was that?”

“Nothing.” He twists his wrist, flexes fingers, grimaces. He’d almost dropped the lockpick. Tiny bolts of flame along his arm. He’d thought it was getting better. Maybe the more delicate forms of breaking and entering aren’t helping. “Got it.” Not open; he’s holding it poised. Once he opens the door everyone’ll know. His father. Chris. Whoever else might be inside. And his allegiance on display.

The sun’s setting. The end of the day. Night coming on strong, black and green over the shipping-yard ocean.

Sebastian, flattened against the back-wall aluminum of the warehouse, looks at his bodyguard. Nikolaj nods, a single motion.

Sebastian tugs the lock free. The door swings open.

Guns snap their way in a clatter of steel. Half a dozen bodies, no doubt chosen for intimidating presence, aim various weapons at the intruders. Fortunately they all have the presence of mind to not fire on sight.

In retrospect, Sebastian decides, standing in the doorway with weaponry plus his father’s gaze trained on him, this was perhaps not his best choice of plan. He takes some comfort in the fact that his father appears equally astonished by the situation, though he doesn’t exactly understand why that steel-blue gaze sweeps up and down his body and lingers over his throat, his arm.

Marcus opens his mouth. Sebastian, not in the mood, jumps in first. In English. “Chris.”

Chris leans back, tilting a chair on two precarious legs to see around a black-clad human colossus, and gasps, “Sebastian…”

“Good morning,” Sebastian says.

Chris smothers a laugh, though his eyes’re inexplicably wet. “Good morning…hey, you’re alive…”

“And in one piece. More or less. Did he hurt you?” He’d come closer, but: guns. Big ones.

“Nah…not too much…you said more or--”

“It is not,” Marcus snaps, “morning. And I would like to know how you got through that door.”

“Lockpicks,” Sebastian supplies, irritatingly literal on purpose. His father’s kidnapped the man he loves; he’s allowed to be an obnoxious brat in retaliation at least one time today. “Also you ought to hire less gullible minions. Ones who think with the correct head.”

Chris makes an abrupt movement, almost toppling his chair. “You--”

Marcus scowls. “Which one?”

“So you can dispose of him later? No, thank you. He was entirely sweet, and he did attempt to say he should call in.” One step closer. Inching toward Chris. Knives to cut those ropes, and if Chris can run, then they can run--

“Are you okay,” Chris breathes, straining his direction. Sebastian, surprised--not by Chris caring, but by the question needing to be asked--says, “Yes?” and only afterward understands that he should’ve been much more clear about how far the seduction in fact progressed. Ah, well. They’ll have time.

Marcus is studying his movements, a crease between eyebrows. “You _are_ injured.”

“And yet still effective.” Automatic, that reply. His father’s always wanted to know: can you perform your duties, will you be useful, will you be effective in your role tonight…

He says, not looking at his father, “I’m getting you out of here.”

Chris smiles, despite looking a little like he wants to cry. “I know you are.”

“For him,” Marcus says. “For an outsider. You defy me, you argue with me, you bring lockpicks--for _him?”_

“His _name_ is Chris.”

“Christopher Robert Evans,” Marcus tops effortlessly. “And he is a moderately talented artist, and he bought new guitar strings three days ago, and he had a bulldog as a childhood pet, and you are being ridiculous. You know this will end badly.”

“You think it will end badly--”

“I _know_ \--”

“ _Mamă_ left you,” Sebastian says tightly, “because the things you did frightened her. Because you frightened her. Not because she stopped loving you.”

His father stares at him.

“You wanted me,” Sebastian says this time, “to learn to read people. I did. She’s happier now. As far as I can tell over the phone. And, you note, still alive.”

Marcus reels the emotion back in, just barely. Fences it around with wire and spikes. “Your mother always knew what I did. What I learned to do. What might be necessary. Christopher knows nothing.”

“He knows _me_ \--”

“And how far will _that_ protect you--you aren’t even carrying a gun--”

“And I made it through your bodyguards--”

“Again, for _what?”_ Marcus throws hands in the air. Exasperated. Sebastian’s beginning to be fairly certain that his father’s not planning to shoot anyone tonight, and consequently takes another step toward Chris. “He can never be part of your world!”

Sebastian meets Chris’ gaze. “I believe that’s a Disney song. And what if I want to be part of his?”

“Disney-- You _know_ your place. With me. He needs to learn. You cannot keep him.”

“He isn’t a _pet_ \--”

“He is the wrong choice for you--”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here!” Chris yells from the chair.

“It’s not a choice!” Sebastian shouts over both of them. “Or if it is then I’ve made it, and it’s him, it’s always him, so whatever lesson you’re trying to teach us doesn’t matter, because I will _always_ keep him safe, even if he doesn’t want me, I’ll die before I let anyone hurt him because I love him!”

Stunned silence descends like hot rain.

“You what?” says his father.

“You…what?” says Chris a half-beat later.

“I love you,” Sebastian says, because he’s said it once already, because it’s true. “Sorry.”

“Sorry—” Chris seems to be battling laughter or tears, shoving emotions back. “No, listen, Sebastian, I—”

The back wall of the warehouse explodes.

The world turns into fire and superheated shrapnel.

Sebastian opens his eyes to find himself on the ground, head spinning. Everything hurts and doesn’t hurt, which is odd, because it should hurt, because he’s on the ground, because he’d been squarely next to the explosion, and where’s Chris, Chris has to be okay—

He coughs. That burns. Smoke and heat in his lungs. When he tries to push himself upright, his left leg won’t cooperate. He stares at it. After a handful of seconds, the sight resolves itself into sense. Or as much sense as a large twisted shard of metal sticking out of his thigh can.

He gets up on the other knee anyway, hunting for Chris through the haze.

Someone, a voice he knows, growls aggravation in Russian. He’s not meant to be injured. The owner of the voice is upset.

He fumbles a knife into his good hand. Thinks: Chris, where are you, tell me something--

He can’t look at his left leg. He knows exactly how bad it is. How deep, and where. What’s been pierced, and what’s currently keeping all that blood inside.

So he doesn’t look. He balances on one leg and searches for the man he loves.

Some of the explosion clears from the air, lifting, drifting skyward. Sebastian struggles to see, and then _can_ see. Chris. Crumpled on the hard unyielding floor amid the shards of his wooden chair.

Nikolaj’s kneeling beside him. Sebastian pleads soundlessly across cloudy rubble for the answer, gets a small nod. Chris is alive.

Chris is alive. Thank God.

The rush of relief makes him stagger, physical comprehension leaving him wobbly and grateful and drained. He can’t catch his balance.

He doesn’t have to. Large meaty hands descend and do it for him. Possessively, protectively.

“Hello, little _tsarevich_.” Sergei smiles. “You do lead an interesting life. We seem to have arrived at an opportune time. For us, that is. Not for your father.”

His father--

Where _is_ his father? He should’ve known, should’ve been looking; acid washes through his stomach. Incomprehensible. Nonsensical. His father can’t be dead. His father wouldn’t do something like that.

No. Not dead. On knees, beside the shattered table. Awake but fuzzy. Held at gunpoint; they all are, Sebastian understands belatedly. Russian guns. Aimed at the three men he might care about in this room: at Chris, and Nikolaj, and Marcus.

“We only want you,” Sergei explains helpfully. “I want you.”

“Well,” Sebastian says, entire situation so far beyond ludicrous--a _second_ kidnapping, insane Russians, obsession, and two minutes ago he’d been arguing with his father--that he can only be flippant, “I’m not certain this is the best way to make an appointment.” He can’t feel his left leg. The pain’s not localized anymore, just a kind of omnipresent floating billow of sensation.

“But it is not an appointment.” The man actually seems distressed that Sebastian does not understand this. “You are coming with me. To Moscow.”

“I’d really rather not.”

“Or I will shoot your father, and your bodyguard, and your lover.”

“Oh,” Sebastian says, “persuasion,” and tries to think. Fast. “What about your import arrangement?” There’s cold fury in his father’s rapidly sharpening eyes.

“This is my own action,” Sergei says impatiently, “not a reflection upon my associates. Come. We will attend the opera tomorrow.”

“That might be a problem.”

“The opera?--ah.” Sergei glances at his leg, frowns, makes an imperious gesture. Two henchmen scurry over. They put hands on Sebastian’s shoulders. Nikolaj tenses, over by Chris’ unconscious form. Sebastian shakes his head, hopefully enough to be an order. Nikolaj scowls but stays put by Chris.

“These two will assist you. They will follow your orders. You are my treasure, after all.” The henchmen do not look entirely pleased about this.

Sebastian, feeling the pain like a delirious golden fog, letting his fingertips creep down to his thigh, exploring options, says, “I need your word. That you won’t hurt them.”

“Agreed.”

“That you’ll let them go. Nobody stays behind to shoot them the second you and I get on a plane.”

Sergei looks offended. “I would not! They are your family.”

“Promise me. And I’ll come with you. Quietly.”

“Of course I promise.” Sergei sighs, leans in to kiss him. The man’s bulk presses into Sebastian’s bruises; the kiss tastes like gunpowder and ash. “Anything you would like. You are so lovely.”

Sebastian studies his face, studies sincerity, breathes out. “Where are we going?”

“My car first. Then there will be a plane, I have arranged for transport…you will see Russia. Moscow. I will build you a palace…someplace worthy of you, beautiful boy…there will be music, and books, and vodka, and I hear that you enjoy sweet things, you will have Russian desserts, oh yes…and I will keep you warm.” The big man beams at him. Sebastian, with effort, does not look back at Chris. At his oldest bodyguard. At his father. They stumble through the hole in twisted metal walls and out to a waiting car, large and black and ostentatious, and Sebastian continues to not look back, and this evidence of commitment earns a delighted smile.

“Show me,” he says, in the car. He’s got a hand sneaking down to touch his leg. Body-warm red-tacky metal. He can’t pull it out--too deep--but he can move it. It’ll be enough.

“Of course. Here.” A mobile phone, grainy video: the Russians leaving, and Sebastian’s brain does a blurry quick-count: yes, that’s all of them, or all the ones he saw. No one left in the ruined warehouse but his father’s people. And Chris.

Safe. All of them: safe.

His vision blurs. For a second.

The night’s chilly, rushing and rustling as the car hurtles ahead. The driver makes sharp turns, no doubt worried about vengeful fathers. The car walls are black and tall, and they enclose him like obsidian fingers. His own hands are cold, but a large Russian bulk’s heating his right side.

He doesn’t want to die. He’s not _planning_ to die. If he’s _dying_ , on the other hand, he’ll delay their departure. Sergei wants him alive, needs him and obsesses over him alive; Sebastian makes clumsy fingers close around sharp-edged metal. He’s acutely aware of the balance of probabilities.

Or he would be. If he could focus.

He’s a bit concerned that he’s dying already. That wound, that location, that depth. He’s dizzy; he’s leaning on Sergei without meaning to. He didn’t notice. His eyes want to close.

Chris is safe. He clings to that last floating plank as the wreck goes down.

Chris is safe. His father’s safe. Nikolaj’s safe. They’ll come for him. At least they’ll try.

I’ll try to be here if you will, he promises. And he thinks, in the disjointed way of dreams, about rain and a Sinatra afternoon, a day so long ago that he’d still felt numb inside, a day on which he’d pondered a lack of existence and been annoyed at having wet feet. Chris had bought him hot chocolate and led him to a world of old movies and secondhand science-fiction, and he’d remembered or relearned, astonished, how to smile.

He hopes Chris understood. I love you, he’d said. Shouted, really. He’d meant all of that: that first-ever smile.

He curls sluggish fingers around the intruder in his leg, feels the jerk as the car skids around a corner, and yanks.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting and he’s too detached to feel it much. He sees the blood. Fountaining up. Getting on clothes, seat covers, panicked hands. Red on black leather, on pale faces. Sergei’s saying something and a henchman’s saying something but Sebastian’s not in the best shape to be following frantic Russian. Big hands land on his body. Pressure to hold back the flood. He’s getting lightheaded.

Sergei grabs his chin. Jerks his head up. “What did you do?”

“Promises,” Sebastian manages weakly. “Said…I’d come with you…didn’t say I’d stay…I did come quietly, though…”

Sergei swears in Russian. It’s a good language for that. “No.”

Sebastian closes his eyes.

When he opens them he’s lying on an uncushioned flat surface. _Not_ in a hospital. The room fades and swirls, ebbing and flowing in tandem with foggy black sparkles. The room is colorful. Narrow. Rich. Reds and brocades and paintings. He’s in someone’s house. Someone’s living room?

Confused, he lets his head roll to the side. Hands are keeping pressure on his leg, on the hole. The world’s crackling--no. A fireplace is crackling. Sizzling, snapping, sparking against nighttime ice. Heat’s searing his face. Everyplace else is cold and he feels heavy and weightless at once, like his body’s too much to inhabit. He’s pretty sure that’s not good.

Sergei’s round face swings into view. He’s holding a long dark cylindrical object. Sebastian can’t quite tell what. The ceiling’s drawing his attention. It’s gilded and molded and resembles a kind of inverted gold-leaf wedding cake, except the leaves’re all painted with Russian dolls.

“I did not want,” the man says to him, deliberate and careful, in English, ensuring that Sebastian understands, “to hurt you. But you are dying, you are bleeding out, we must stop it, yes?”

Yes. That would be nice, yes. He’s getting a terrible feeling about his spur-of-the-moment desperate plan. They’re not on a plane to Russia, but that’s not the important point here, and he’s more and more afraid he’s wildly overestimated his ability to survive major blood loss and burgeoning geysirs. Likely the earlier fight in Chris’ apartment hasn’t helped. Not that he’d take it back. Not that he’d take any of it back. If all his roads’ve led here--

Chris is safe.

That’s a good thought. Chris being safe. Himself having done something good. Like a hero, Chris’d said once. Knight dressed in shining armor. Fairytale triumph. Maybe that’s what you’re made for.

Hot sticky arterial blood probably isn’t the same as shining armor.

Chris is safe and Nikolaj’s safe and his father’s safe. He thinks he’s happy about that. He thinks maybe he loves his father, at least a little, after all. They’re not that different. Not when they fight to protect what they have. And he remembers violin notes, plaintive haunting wild melodies from winter-bright childhood evenings, unless that’s blood-loss-related delirium, which is possible.

“We must do this,” Sergei tells him, reappearing, “now. We have no tools. We have only this.” When he lifts the object, metal and shapes come into view. Sebastian, lying prone on his back, has to focus and then translate. Initials. In metal. In…hot metal…

“I have done it before,” Sergei says, “to those who require a lesson. You need to live. And you also require a lesson.” He leans in. The branding iron’s back out of view, probably in the fire. Sebastian can’t move. He tries. He’s screaming internally at his own idiocy. And bleeding to death. He’s doing that too.

“You belong to me,” Sergei tells him, face lit by the red-orange fire-glow in the sumptuous room, “and you are going to live, and when you make promises you must only think about _me_.” And fire comes up and kisses blood and flesh.

The air fills up with the scent of scorched skin and hair, with the noise of burning. Someone somewhere makes a sound. Sebastian wonders when it’ll start to hurt, but that’s not right, it’s already hurting, only it’s not like hurt at all, too big and all-encompassing and radiant for that, like collapsing into sunlight. He wonders whether it’s too late. He wonders whether anyone’s actually coming for him, or if he’s not bought enough time for them to follow, or if his father’s refused a rescue for business or personal reasons.

He wonders whether he’s about to live or die; he can’t tell one from the other now. Not through the burning. Which seems to be taking forever. Eternal. Time wiped away by agony and a branding iron on his thigh.

He hopes someone will hold Chris. He’s glad he at least said those words, those three words, his love, one time. Out loud. Not hidden. To Chris. Even if Chris wouldn't've said the words back, can never say those words for him; that's okay, Chris doesn't have to. Chris cares for him, at least a little. He believes that. He _can_ believe that, now. Chris gave him that. And Chris is safe, so everything's okay.

He hopes he’s not dying, but if he is, it’s not so bad: he’s got the vision of Chris’ smile, swimming up behind closed eyelids to greet him one more time.

 


	11. White Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smoke’s filling the air, but fading. Chris, opening his eyes, blinking, can’t find Sebastian even when he scours every inch of the space with his gaze. Shouldn’t he be able to find Sebastian?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for:** minor character death (nameless mafia thugs), bodily injury (not too explicit or gory, but Sebastian's definitely hurt, carrying on from the previous chapter), discussion of underage sex of extremely dubious consenting nature (Chris hears secondhand the story of Seb's first assignment; Sebastian did agree to the night, but was fifteen and probably not entirely prepared for the consequences to himself)
> 
> So close to the end! It only gets better from here, promise. Happy endings. Lots of healing. We swear.
> 
> Title this time courtesy of Billy Idol: _there is nothing fair in this world, there is nothing safe in this world/ and there is nothing pure in this world, and there is nothing sure in this world/ look for something left in this world/ start again…_

Chris opens eyes. This hurts. Everything hurts. He doesn’t recall ever hurting this much. He can’t _think_ past the hurt. Like he’s been kicked everywhere, like an explosion’s gone off in his face--

Oh God.

Oh God, Sebastian--the back wall of the warehouse vanishing in flame, and Sebastian, brave and beautiful and fierce and determined, standing in _front_ of--

Smoke’s filling the air, but fading. He can’t see Sebastian even when he scours every inch of the space with his gaze. Shouldn’t he be able to?

Other bodies’re visible. Moving, black-clad, silhouetted in the haze.

Sebastian, his mouth tries. Numb. No sound.

Nikolaj materializes beside him as if the plea’s conjured him--not his charge--out of the smoke. “You are alive.” The head bodyguard looks, rather unnervingly, the worse for wear: bruised and scraped up and outraged at the world. “Can you sit up?”

“Sebastian,” Chris whispers. Businesslike hands are busy disentangling him from the remains of the chair. His shoulder shrieks. It’s had a close encounter with some ground.

Nikolaj’s mouth goes taut. “I only waited to know if you were--”

“What--what happened--”

Marcus, getting up slowly several feet away, interrupts with only a glance. “My son,” he says, and stops. Swallows. “My son bartered himself to Sergei Golodayev in exchange for our lives.” His voice glints with buried emotion like broken opals: astonishment, admiration, pride, grief, rage. “I need guns. And men. And we will make him pay, and we will burn his houses to the ground, and we will make him _bleed_ \--”

“ _Riga_ ,” Nikolaj interrupts. Gently, agonizingly. “He _has_ your son.”

The expression on Marcus’ face, then, sends chills down Chris’ spine.

“It may not,” Nikolaj starts, interrupts himself. “It may be…I don’t know how much you saw. Sebastian…”

“Sebastian,” Chris echoes, dread coiling in his gut.

“He was injured. Badly. The…” Nikolaj makes a gesture. Near his own thigh: near an artery, beating life-blood. The shrapnel. The metal. A bit of Chris’ own chair. Something; what matters is the end of the sentence, the one that brings the world crumbling down. “If he pulls it out, if they do, thinking to help…I think, unless they have immediate means to stop the bleeding…but with no aid, no assistance…”

Marcus’ voice scrapes harsh like bodies dragged over gravel. “How long?”

“Not very. I was not close enough for a better guess.” Nikolaj’s voice is that of a man who blames himself for this failure of post-explosion physical location. He glances from Chris to Marcus and back. “He knew. I could see his face.”

“No,” says Chris, says Chris’ mouth, without conscious thought. “No, he--no, please--”

“How _long?”_ Marcus says again, with a different inflection.

Nikolaj looks ever so slightly startled, and--hopeful? Not that. Not quite. “Your son will wait until he is certain that the bargain is kept. That we are safe.”

“We have,” Marcus announces, a general marshaling troops, “exactly that long.”

 

Sebastian wakes up some time later, lying in clouds. He blinks. The world fuzzes out briefly, but settles. Steadies.

Ah. Not clouds. A bed. A bed under an ornate dark wood ceiling, a bed that’s heavy and imperial and built for a tremendously large man. A bed with garnet-red sheets and luxurious pillows. Opera playing softly in the background. Russian.

Russian. A large man. Sergei. Who is currently on the phone, not facing him, sounding irritated.

Sebastian swallows, or tries to. His throat’s dry. He might’ve been screaming. When he moves his left leg, pain shoots dazzling arrows up and down his spine. He’s not bleeding to death, though, so he’ll take the arrows.

He’s wearing what on examination of one visible sleeve turns out to be a far too big white robe, also expensive fabric, plush and loose. Other than that, naked.

This realization gets him to bolt upright in bed, or rather to try to bolt upright. He stifles the shriek of _holy fucking hell this hurts_ with one hand shoved into his mouth.

Very gingerly, he attempts a glance at his leg. There’s a bandage over it. Also white, and pristine. Okay. He’s disinclined to peek beneath. Even the idea makes everything throb in warning. Although…he pauses…he’s still _got_ the leg. Maybe it hadn’t been as bad as he’d pictured, amid explosions and smoke.

He hazards the sitting-up effort again. The whimper escapes before he can stop it.

Sergei turns, eyes brightening, setting down the phone. “Ah, you are awake! How do you feel?”

Sebastian lets his expression answer _that_. Sergei’s face falls, almost comically. “Yes, I know...we did not mean to hurt you, little _tsarevich_. Or not so badly. It had to be done. You would have most likely died. It was not the femoral artery--you _would_ have died if so, did you know as much?--but you were bleeding, and it would not stop.”

“So you decided to use a branding iron on my leg instead.” Good. His voice is working. Raspy, waking up and hoarse, but he’s got that as a weapon, if nothing else.

Weapons. He glances around. His clothes’re folded on a chair. He can’t tell whether anyone’s gone through them and found his last knife.

Sergei follows his gaze. “Ah. I thought…you were very much covered in blood, and we had to remove your clothing…I did not touch you. Only to give you my robe. I would not do that to you.” He even sounds earnest. Like it matters whether Sebastian believes him.

Playing along, he offers, “Thank you,” and doesn’t look at his leg again. Sergei beams as if Sebastian’s gratitude means the world. “Can I get you anything? I have painkillers. Like…Vicodin, but stronger. And water. And vodka, but I think perhaps you should not mix them. The helicopter will come for us in twelve minutes. We cannot get to the plane now. Your father has men there already. As I am certain you know.”

He’s unsure how he’s expected to’ve known while unconscious, but he lets that one go. The painkillers sound marvelous. He accepts them and water. Shuts his eyes. “Helicopter.”

“We will take it to a private airfield, and from there, back to Russia.” Sergei sits down beside him. “I can show you my home. The fields in winter, the palaces, the opera houses, of course…you will learn to love it as I do.”

“You mean once I can walk.”

“I shall take excellent care of you.” The man actually looks delighted at the idea. Sebastian shoves down the urge to throw up.

“So beautiful,” Sergei says, eyes dreamy. “And mine, now. Everyone wants you, _tsarevich_. So many men and women have paid so much for nights with you. And only I took you.”

Sebastian murmurs, “That’s an accurate way of phrasing it, isn’t it…” and ponders how much weight his leg’ll in fact take if he tries to get up and run. The painkillers’re kicking in. He’s hoping he’s not accidentally overdosed. He’s taken Vicodin before, but this isn’t exactly that, is it. And it feels stronger than anything standard. On the brighter side, he’s not in nearly as much searing pain.

Outside the dark’s closing in fast. Stormclouds after sunset. The first drops of rain come in hard and rattle penthouse windows like shuddering bones.

Sergei smiles at him. Leans closer. Slips fingers under Sebastian’s chin and kisses him. Sebastian tastes vodka on the man’s breath, and doesn’t fight, but doesn’t engage, either. Neutral.

He’s surprised to be let go. Mournful Russian eyes search his face. “Do you hate me?”

“Would it matter if I did?” He throws some semblance of his practiced seductive charm into his voice, not completely successfully. “I’m here.”

“You are, yes…mine.” One hand hovers over the bandage. Not touching. “But…”

“But you didn’t give me a choice? Also true.”

“I did.” Sergei’s hand clenches into a fist; Sebastian tenses, expecting the blow, but it doesn’t come. The bulk lurches off the bed and paces across the room, footsteps over blood-red carpet. “I gave you a choice. You chose me.”

“You had guns pointed at the man I love and at my father and at my bodyguard,” Sebastian says, exhausted, injured, beyond scared and into simple truthfulness. Sergei’s unlikely to kill him after so much trouble, after all. “And I was bleeding to death. If you think that is a choice, then yes, I chose you.”

“I saved you.”

“I’ve got your initials burned into my _thigh_.”

“I--” Sergei cuts himself off. Stops pacing, a landmass come to dismayed rest. “You _will_ be happy.”

“Is that an order?” He doesn’t know where the defiance is coming from. Weeks ago he’d’ve nodded and said yes and given up arguing. Weeks ago it wouldn’t’ve mattered, whatever happened to him.

But he’s thinking of Chris’ eyes, and Chris’ hands, and himself saying _I love him._

“I want you to be happy,” Sergei hammers home. Thunder rumbles on cue in the background. “With me.”

“You want me to love you. I can’t.”

“Because I hurt you? Or because of the American boy? You will forget him. He doesn’t even speak Russian. He is an uncultured child. You will cease to think about him soon.”

Sebastian has to laugh. “It doesn’t work that way.”

Sergei seems to be about to answer, but pauses, looking at his face.

There’s a tap at the door. A brief flurry of excitable Russian. Sebastian, worn out and hurting, picks up the gist if not the nuances: slight delay, ten more minutes, bad weather. Someone not answering a radio. One of the perimeter guards. Concern. More sentries dispatched to the location.

Sergei comes back and sits down with him. “Are you in pain?”

“Metaphorical, or literal? Yes. Are you planning to keep me naked? You’d like everyone seeing your property?”

“I…do not have clothing to fit you. Not here. So thin, and I think you do not eat enough…”

“Everyone says that,” Sebastian grumbles. Sergei looks nonplussed. He sighs. “Never mind.”

“My property.” Those eyes look sad, in the gap before the next words. “But…you are not, are you? Not really.”

Sebastian, now confused, says nothing, sitting carefully in place in the center of the giant bed with the crimson sheets. Safer to add no fuel to the potential fire.

Sergei reaches over tenderly and brushes strands of his hair back into place. It’s a wistful gesture. “You would come home with me, and you would climb into my bed, and you would let me take you to the opera…and you still would not be mine.”

That’s true, but an unsettling epiphany coming from his abductor. Hopefully not an intimation of suddenly revised plans for dealing with his body.

“Your eyes say it,” Sergei murmurs. “Different. You do this for them. Not me.”

Well, if he’s going to die, there are worse ways to go than proclaiming his love for Chris and Nikolaj and, yes, even his father. “Yes.”

“You chose them. Not me.”

“Yes.”

Sergei heaves himself to his feet. “Then you can go.”

“I--what?”

“I said. You can go.”

Sebastian’s literally too stunned to in fact get up. For about five seconds. And then he swings feet to the floor, half-suspecting it’ll be some sort of bizarre trick.

Sergei doesn’t move.

Sebastian essays a tentative step. Catches himself on the bed, as those miraculous painkillers do their job of keeping agony wrapped in golden wool. He tries again. Better. “But--you know my father--”

“Will kill me, without you as leverage against it? _Da_. And if he does not, our mutual business associates in Russia will, for endangering the partnership. Or my wife will.”

“You--”

“You were worth it,” Sergei says, sitting down at the foot of the bed, not moving toward him. The rain sheets cool and silvery across the windowpane, behind thick drapes. “Even if you are not mine. One night of seeing you smile, at dinner. I am a stupid old man, and I love you, and I regret nothing. You were worth it, boy.”

And Sebastian finds himself saying, quietly, “I’m sorry.”

“Just go.”

Sebastian limps toward the door, hesitates, on impulse comes back. Rifles through his clothing; too shredded to wear, but that’s not what he’s hunting for.

No one took his last knife. He’s unsure whether they missed it in the rush or simply didn’t care or reasoned that he’d be across the room from it and wounded in any case. He limps back, leaning on furniture and handy bedposts. “Here.”

“A…gift?”

“I don’t know. Keep it, use it, sell it if you want. It’s expensive. You could buy an island. Well. A small one.”

Sergei takes the slender blade. Lamplight glints off the narrow shimmering line. “Thank you. Go.”

Sebastian nods, and goes.

He’s not certain which of the options Sergei will choose. He doesn’t want to look back. He keeps a hand on the wall--tasteless gilt-edged golden-swirl patterns, and he's unbearably grateful for its presence regardless--for assistance. It holds him upright, and they leave the room together.

 

After a flurry of orders and motion and hurtling car-rides, Chris and Sebastian’s father and Sebastian’s father’s pet mafia goons all end up at an otherwise unremarkable brownstone house in a residential neighborhood, quiet and calm. The door’s opened by a woman who is also quiet and calm, tall and slim and, yes, beautiful--Chris’ brain registers that much, of course he’d’ve expected a mob kingpin’s mistress to be beautiful, but it’s not a flashy gaudy kind of beauty. More like rich deep earth. Aged redwoods. Grounded warmth. She’s got brown hair lightly touched with grey, and brown eyes lightly touched with grey, and her gaze softens the instant she sees them.

“Marcus,” she asks, just that, a question, while simultaneously ushering in mob enforcers and finding a blanket and putting it around Chris’s shoulders, because evidently he’s the one most in need of care.

Marcus says tersely, “Sebastian,” followed by a rapid explanation in Romanian. She looks dismayed; she steps closer, and he takes her hand for a moment, holding on. “It will be all right,” she tells him. “You will save him.”

Marcus’ mouth firms up, and he nods, and kisses her fingertips before letting go. He vanishes into what must be an office; Chris catches a glimpse of him picking up the phone.

“He’ll make some calls,” the woman says. She’s dressed simply and comfortably but elegantly; the house is simple and elegant as well. Graceful clock on the wall, tasteful timeless furnishings in lavender and cream and brown and gold. The scents of coffee and baked goods, something savory and herb-laced, floating in the air. Chris’ artist’s gaze wants to narrow down and focus on details, on composition and color scheme, because if he’s thinking about this house he won’t have to think about blood and Sebastian and--

She adds, mouth quirking up in valiant good humor, “I’m Christine. If Sebastian’s mentioned me.”

“You…um, you’re his father’s--Marcus’s…you’re his, um…” Lover? Girlfriend? Live-in courtesan? “Um.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “I’m his um. Come sit down--” And she steers him with capable hands into the kitchen, where Chris sits obediently on a bar stool and lets her tilt his head and critically examine his face. “That might need stitches,” she says. “Or not. We’ll clean it up and see.”

“...um?”

“You’re bleeding.” She accepts a first-aid kit from one of the bodyguards; they’re having strategic planning sessions over in the corner on a rose-patterned sofa. “Hold still. I’ve done this before. Not for quite some time, I’ll admit.”

“How long have you two…been…”

“Nearly four years.” She dabs at the cut along Chris’s eyebrow--the cut Chris’s just now realized exists--and makes it sting more, momentarily. “I knew who he was, yes. From the beginning.”

“And you still--”

She pauses, leans back to meet his eyes. Her own are level. Unshaken. “He is worth loving. As is his son.”

Chris wants to cry. Struggles not to. Blood’s in his eyelashes, or maybe grief.

“I never knew Sebastian well.” She’s patching him up now: butterfly bandages, antibiotic gel, ice for a throbbing shoulder. “I would have liked to. I would _like_ to. He’s not…not quick to trust. They’re very alike that way. Stubborn. Not easy to know. But deserving of the effort.”

“Yes,” Chris whispers. “Yes.”

She offers him that smile again, conspiratorial: “They do sometimes deliberately make it difficult.”

Chris has to laugh, thinking of Sebastian and prickly attempts at deflection and turned-up jacket collars; and then feels the salt slide down his cheeks like rain.

Sebastian’s father’s mistress doesn’t ask him to talk. Only offers him coffee and fresh-baked rosemary bread, and then sits beside him on the other bar stool, waiting with him.

“What will he do,” Chris says at last. To the bread, to the slice he’s holding without tasting it.

“He’ll get Sebastian back.” She says it simply. Assured.

“You’ve known them for years,” Chris murmurs, question not fully formed. A stray thought wanders past: “When’s his birthday? He never told me.”

“Sebastian? August. He’ll be twenty this year.” She guesses the rest of the question easily enough; his face must be an open book. “He was already doing…what he does. For his father. When I met them. I only heard that story secondhand, from Marcus, and only once…only recently, in fact. After a night when…I’ve never seen him quite so angry.” Him, from context, means Marcus. “Not at his son. At--someone else. At himself more than anyone.”

“Do you know--no, never mind, you said he was already--”

The closed office door lurks in the background. Christine cups her coffee in both hands, cradling heat. “I can tell you the story as I heard it. You deserve to know.”

I hope so, Chris thinks. I wish I did deserve to know. I wish I’d been able to save him, to do something, _anything,_ instead of being goddamn useless while he--

“When Sebastian was fifteen,” she begins. Her voice, hushed amid rosemary and sage and kitchen-heat, has the cadence of a fairytale. “Marcus was not as powerful as he is now, not then. And there was a man, a very dangerous man…Sebastian was in the room when that man came to visit. The man saw Sebastian.”

Fifteen. God. Chris has to close his eyes. Acid burns in his stomach.

“Marcus said no. Sebastian said yes. Sebastian…” She pauses, picks words like slippery stepping-stones across a treacherous stream. “I think that he wanted to make his father proud. I think that he wanted--Marcus is not a demonstrative man. I think Sebastian wanted to feel like…his father’s son. And so he argued for the yes, for his own usefulness as a bargaining chip, and eventually they went to the very dangerous man together, and Marcus said yes, for one single night.”

She stops as if she’s waiting for comment; Chris is too busy trying not to throw up. He can picture it all too readily: fifteen-year-old Sebastian, wide-eyed and long-legged, quick to light up at any hint of praise, obstinate chin held high.

“He came back different,” Christine goes on, hushed as long-ago heartbreak. “That’s what Marcus said. Different. He walked into the office the next morning and he said only that he was fine, that nothing was wrong. That he’d picked up a few secrets, because the dangerous man let things slip during pillow talk. He said that he could be useful, he thought.”

Something _should_ have been wrong. Sebastian at fifteen, alone for the night with a man even Marcus had been scared to defy…

“He never spoke about that night. Not to his father, not to anyone, not that Marcus ever heard. I think--and I was not there, remember--he meant the yes when he gave it. But he did not know what that would mean; how could he? And then his father said yes as well. And I think neither of them can forgive that yes.” She shrugs, letting the thought float between them for a moment. Sips coffee, lowers it. “Once it became known that he was available, of course, there was no going back. And he was--as he knew he would be--useful.”

“He’s not just useful.”

“No.”

“He’s--that’s fucking _wrong._ All of it.”

“Yes. Perhaps. It is what happened.” She shrugs again. “Or how I heard the story. The night I heard it, the bodyguards had pulled Sebastian out of an assignment. He did not ask to be rescued. Marcus,” she adds wryly, “put a fist through my wall, and yet couldn’t manage to ask his son why.”

“I love him,” Chris says. Too intimate, too late, wrong time, wrong _person._ But he has to. He has to say it. He has to’ve said it. Pieces of bread shred themselves between his fingers. “I love him, and--and I didn’t say it, oh God I didn’t _say_ it, he said it and he’s gone and what if he thinks I didn’t want to say it, what if he thinks I don’t, what if--”

He can’t talk anymore. He shoves the bread away. He’s made a miniature Everest of inedible crumbs.

Christine’s watching him like she wants to help. She can’t. No helping this.

What if. God. What if.

Nikolaj thinks Sebastian’s going to die. Has said as much: not in so many words, perhaps, but when recounting injury, when speaking of possibilities. The kitchen, despite the best efforts of golden light and hot bread and sharp sweet cheese, is cold.

Sebastian said the _I love you,_ said it first, said it to Chris with no expectation of return. Apologized for the words, as if his love could somehow tarnish Chris with sticky dirt.

Sebastian gave himself up for Chris, for all of them. Sebastian’s the best and strongest and most wonderful person Chris’s ever known.

And Sebastian’s gone to his death, or to a fate worse than that at the hands of an obsessed Russian mobster, believing that his love’s something to apologize for. Never knowing that Chris’d been about to say the words right back: _no, listen, don’t say sorry for that just listen because I love you too, I love you so damn much--_

His eyes burn. His body aches. Adrenaline rockets through his veins, demanding that he do something, that he get up, that he go find Sebastian--

Weaponry-clad mob enforcers, now scattered around the house, checking security and checking in on communication lines, make a mockery of that idea. Chris doesn’t know how to shoot a gun. Chris doesn’t know how to fight. Chris doesn’t know how to tell the man he loves that he does, yes, love him.

Christine refills their coffee. They wait. Noncombatants together.

The clock on the wall ticks. Tocks. Ticks. Minutes pass. Only minutes?

The door to the office opens.

Chris lunges to his feet, blanket falling to the floor; but Marcus only barks out a not-English order and vanishes again.

Christine asks, voice unbearably kind, whether he’d like anything else. Tea, perhaps. He shakes his head. Sits back down.

He tells her she has a lovely home. He’s trying to say thank you. He’s trying to fill the silence that drags leaden weights along the floor.

She smiles. Tells him she’s an interior decorator, a designer in fact. How she’d met Marcus: recommended by a friend to perform facelifts on some of the legitimate business operations, hotel interiors, import shops, a club. She’s done work for a few national hotel chains; she tells him a story about a client who’d insisted on a hideous shade of trademarked green in every room. He tries to listen, to smile in return.

The door opens again. Marcus says, in English with a glance at Chris, “We know they’re at his townhouse. No one’s left or arrived since. We have men at the airfield.”

One of the bodyguards--the biggest and blockiest--grunts a question. Marcus nods. “I’ve sent men to surround the place. No reinforcements will arrive. If we go now--”

“They still have Sebastian,” Chris says, not realizing he’s going to speak until he does. “Will they hurt him?”

“I think not.” Marcus glares but doesn’t instantly decapitate him for insolence, a response which seems to disappoint the large bodyguard. “The whole point of this debacle was taking my son alive. _With_ them. They won’t hurt him.”

“You think.” What if you’re wrong, he pleads. What if we get close and they spot your men and they decide to hold a gun to his head rather than die themselves. What if. Again.

“Yes,” Marcus bites off. “And I am right.”

“Fine,” Chris says, though it isn’t. “What can I do?”

Icy blue eyes narrow at him. “Nothing. You would only get in our way.”

“ _Nothing_ \--”

“Stay here.”

“But--”

“My son,” Marcus snaps, and this time he is angry, though it’s anger laced through with some other raw emotion, “my son loves you. Do you understand? And if he loves you he will have you, when we get him back from this he _will_ find you waiting for him, safe and unharmed, and if I must order Radu to _sit_ on you to keep you so, then I will--”

The big blocky bodyguard now looks alarmed, insofar as stone can.

“Wait,” Chris interjects.

“Do _not_ test my patience, _nepoftit_ \--”

“No, seriously, I’m not arguing!” Which at least gets Marcus to stop and wait for more words. Chris gives them to him: “Where’s Nikolaj?”

Every single person glances around the room. They discover what Chris had when searching for an ally seconds ago: an absence.

Marcus swears. Chris has heard that word on Sebastian’s lips a time or two. This is less sexy but far more scary. “He knew the address, of course--he went in alone, that stupid--without _telling_ us--”

“What’s going to happen?” Chris whispers. The sound dies as it emerges. The clock ticks again to make a point. Outside rain’s beginning, billowing in with virulent force. Storm-laden night, ozone in the air.

Marcus shakes his head. Not quite believing. “What _is_ this, tonight--my son, coming after you, now his head bodyguard, not waiting for orders--what have you _done_ to them, Christopher--”

“Hey!” Chris slams a hand on the countertop. Feels good. “How is it my fault that Sebastian wants to think for himself? And what makes you think Nikolaj would ever, like, _ever,_ listen to me? And--”

“Be silent and stay _put_.”

“And I love him!” Chris yells as Marcus turns away. “Sebastian! Not Nikolaj! You know what I mean!”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Marcus admits, abruptly turning back. “ _I don’t know._ Nikolaj’s lost us the element of surprise. If he’s caught--”

“If he isn’t--” The bodyguards are watching in fascination. Chris isn’t sure whether they’ve never seen anyone argue with their leader before, or if they’re placing voiceless bets on how soon he’ll die.

“We’ll find out,” Marcus says flatly. “I am attempting to enlist the Russians. On the phone. He’s one of theirs; they should be willing to help, over in Moscow. If it gets that far.”

If Sebastian and his captor make it to Moscow. If Sebastian’s alive.

“I need to make a call,” Marcus says, which may or may not be a lie--Chris doesn’t know why he thinks so: a clenching of jaw, a quiver behind eyes that’re too familiar a blue--and disappears into the office and slams the door with enough force to rival the storm.

Chris presses hands over his mouth. Shakes with the aftermath. Sinks back down on the bar stool, lets his hands drop uselessly down. And he waits.

That’s all he can do.

 

Sebastian, when not drunk, high, or otherwise incapacitated, possesses an excellent sense of direction. Just now his head’s swimming in pleasant painkiller-pink clouds, but the townhome isn’t that large. He can make a fairly logical guess at the location of the front door.

He holds onto his new favorite wall. They stagger down some stairs together.

He has to get out. He has to find Chris. That’s all he’s got left. Last standing pillars on eroding shores.

He needs to know that Chris is alive and safe. He can’t imagine anything beyond that. Not yet.

Chris might care for him. Chris might want him. Chris might turn and run screaming in the opposite direction. Chris might very understandably decide that Sebastian’s not worth getting kidnapped and blown up over. Chris might’ve already gotten the hell out and away. Sebastian genuinely doesn’t know. His world’s narrowed. One goal. Walk out of this endless house, find Chris, ensure that Chris is safe.

Possibly that’s three goals. Close enough.

He turns a corner, and finds a man.

He vaguely recognizes the man. Big. Cranky. One of Sergei’s faceless thugs. One who doesn’t look very happy with him.

The man shouts something extremely impolite in highly idiomatic Russian. Sebastian gets the gist: he’s angry, they’ve thrown away their future, Sebastian’s a whore, Sebastian’s about to die.

Like hell, he decides, and runs. Except that’s not the best idea, because he’s left his knife with Sergei and his leg’s crumpling with every step and that doesn’t matter because a large weight knocks him off his feet.

They flip over and over across the carpet. A lamp hits the floor. Sebastian’s elbow does too, and that hurts, but the rest of him’s preoccupied.

He’s fairly flexible and supported by splendid painkillers and at least not bleeding to death at this point, but he’s also in shock--amateur cauterization and near-death-by-explosion’ll do that and worse--and he’s not really a match for an enraged Russian mafia muscleman with nothing to lose. He fights back, though, and gets in a few good blows. The man knocks him down and lands a kick right over the fresh burn, and Sebastian screams as his leg turns into fire, and then can’t scream because he’s on the floor with meaty hands around his neck.

He tries to inhale. Can’t.

He tries to fight back. All he can do is try. And not give up.

Chris, he thinks. Blackness flits around his vision. His chest burns. His eyes want to close. Slowly, they do.

A crack. A heaviness atop him, sudden and boneless. Heat on his face, his chest. Blood.

He still can’t breathe, struggling for air through crushed passageways and dead weight.

There’re running steps, and the body’s yanked away, and hands touch him. A voice. He knows that voice. Nikolaj.

Nikolaj’s swearing in Romanian. “Sebastian. _Băiat_. Wake up, come on, come on, you’re not--not _now_ \--I’m here now, come on, wake up for me--”

He coughs, gulps in air, shoves his eyes open. Manages to lift a wobbly hand. Nikolaj catches it. And his expression’s one Sebastian’s never seen before, broken open and revealed. “Lie still. Where does it hurt? Is it--inside, where you’re hurt?”

What? Sebastian blinks, thinks dizzily that they really should be going, there must be more guards--and then realizes what he must look like. Completely naked under Sergei’s once-white robe. Bruised and blood-splashed. Barely breathing.

He croaks out, “ ’m fine…” and Nikolaj glares at him in a manner that suggests affront at interrupted concern. “You--”

“It’s mostly…not mine…maybe eighty percent…I’m not hurt…well, not like that…” He stops to cough. Winces. “Ow.”

Nikolaj closes both eyes for a fraction of a second. Sebastian, listening, catches something that sounds an awful lot like a “thank you,” and then, all business, “Can you walk?”

He considers the anchor of pain that’s his left leg, plus the rasp in his breathing. “Not well.”

“All right. Here…”

They get up. Stumble. Pick their way step by step across the ocean of carpet. Sebastian’s concentrating on oxygen. Getting easier. One scrape of air at a time.

“What happened?”

“What…oh. He let me go.”

Nikolaj raises eyebrows.

“I’m good at being…persuasive…stop for a second…”

“We have to--”

“I know, I just…” He’s shaking. Leaning more weight on his oldest and best bodyguard than he had been a second ago. “I can’t stand up.”

Nikolaj grabs his arm. Eases him to the ground. Peels sticky robe away from his thigh. Swears again. Loudly. “Did he _stab_ you--?”

“Kicked me. I think it opened back up…” It has. Fragile scorched skin split open. Not gushing, but a steady trickle of blood down his leg. He doesn’t admit to being frightened.

Nikolaj yanks the tattered tie out of the robe. Jerks it around his leg. Pulls. Sebastian grits teeth and traps the scream behind them. It’ll hold.

They look at each other, crumpled into a heap in the center of Sergei’s townhome carpet. Nikolaj’s hands’re bloody. First aid and battlefield bandages. Sebastian nods and they get up again and try to run.

Bodies in the hall. So many bodies. Neatly efficiently dispatched. Sebastian coughs again--the air tastes of gunsmoke and copper, scouring raw lungs--and gets out, “Are _you_ okay?”

“Don’t worry about me.” Nikolaj’s pulling out keys. Car keys. They’re at the front door. “We should be--”

Motion. One of the bodies. Not quite dead. Pushing itself upright against a wall. Fingers finding a trigger.

Nikolaj spins around and launches a knife. The body slumps over. Nikolaj scowls, and bashes open the townhome door with an impatient boot. “As I was saying, we should--”

“Nikolaj,” Sebastian says. His bodyguard turns back, lips parting, word half-formed.

The word fades and dies. Sebastian, very slowly, peels one hand away from his stomach. At the side and low, just over his hip. Red on his fingers, his palm. Blood.

It doesn’t hurt. He’d felt a tug, maybe. A pinch.

Nikolaj’s saying something now, something that sounds important and loud and emphatic, and he probably ought to listen but he can’t seem to focus, because, oh, there’s the hurt, bright and shining, too bright really, it’s blinding, he’d like it to stop now, please; and then everything goes quiet and cold.


	12. Safe And Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door swings open. Nikolaj walks in. Nikolaj walks in with Sebastian in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go, plus probably an epilogue that's just a list of our random head-canon about their future. :-)
> 
> Chapter title from Capital Cities' "Safe and Sound": _you could be my luck/ even if the sky is falling down/ I know that we'll be safe and sound..._

Chris wants to scream. Or to turn back time. Or to run out the door and into the night, grabbing a weapon, shouting Sebastian’s name. His hands are shaking, he notices. He clenches them into fists, but that’s worse, so he stops.

Around the townhome men are gathering firepower. Strapping on body armor. Checking in over the radio. Marcus, in the still eye of the hurricane, gives ice-packed orders. He catches Chris’ gaze briefly, then turns to answer a question.

Chris sits on the bar-stool in the graceful townhome with the gold and white and lavender accent walls, and watches the black of guns throw shadows over delicate domesticity. Knives slicing up the homey scent of bread. Clatter disturbing the peace. Rain outside like the fists of vengeful gods.

Chris has never wanted a weapon before. Chris has never even touched a gun.

He would. He would for Sebastian. Sebastian who saved him, who loves him, who needs saving now. The thought makes his insides churn. Sebastian alone with a man obsessed. Sebastian already terribly hurt, maybe dying. Sebastian, who knows exactly what that man wants from him, from his body.

The long night pulls at his bones. Grief. Rage. Regret like steel flaying open his heart: those words he never got to say. So simple. Why didn’t he? I love you. I love you, Sebastian.

Sebastian’s father’s mistress is setting out first-aid supplies in what’s usually a formal dining room. She’s prepared and preparing: bandages, sheets, antibiotics, painkillers. Chris guesses that mob enforcers will resist going to a hospital unless absolutely necessary; he shies away from the vision of Sebastian bleeding across those white sheets, that heavy table. If it’s necessary they’ll get Sebastian professional help, won’t they? Record-keeping and paper-trails be damned?

Maybe he should help her. Maybe he should do something.

Maybe he should’ve said the _I love you_ any one of the hundred times he’s thought it. So many chances. Now dwindled down to one more, or none.

He can’t even come with the rescue mission. He’s a civilian. An artist.

But--no, maybe he should. Maybe he should: if Sebastian’s…hurt…that badly, if Sebastian’s scared or delirious from pain or…traumatized--Chris’ brain flinches from the thought, sickened, but hauls it up into the light of possibility anyway--then Sebastian might not recognize the men who come to save him. Might need Chris there. Someone familiar. Someone trusted. Someone who loves him.

Armed with this ammunition, he shoves his weary body to leaden feet. Marcus glances his way. Starts to head over.

One of the black-clad brick walls says something. Head tilted. Voice through an earpiece. Two of the others eyeball the front door.

The first man says something else. An order, Chris thinks. Marcus is watching but not intervening, letting his subordinates do their jobs.

The other two men head toward the door: brisk, efficient. Chris’ heart speeds up.

He thinks suddenly that he knows one of the men. He’s seen that crooked nose and those linebacker shoulders before. In his apartment. The night Sebastian’d needed space to recover after an assignation gone dreadfully wrong. There’d been four extra bodyguards in Chris’ tiny cluttered place, then: protecting their charge. The man doesn’t glance his way now.

More discussion’s happening over the earpieces. Rain’s smothering any sound from outside. Chris clutches the edge of the granite countertop. It’s smooth and cool beneath his fingers, and hard.

Louder chatter now, swift liquid Romanian. And Sebastian’s bodyguard, the man whose name Chris can’t recall, leaping for the door.

Which swings open. Reveals Sebastian’s _head_ bodyguard, his longest-serving, his best.

Nikloaj walks in.

Nikolaj walks in with Sebastian in his arms.

Nikolaj walks in with Sebastian’s body in his arms.

The world stops.

Chris feels the no on his lips, in his throat, but can’t get the word out through the awful roaring hush.

No. No, not now. Not Sebastian.

Please. No.

Sebastian’s unmoving. Limp. Covered in blood and wrapped in what looks like Nikolaj’s leather coat over a filthy white robe. One long leg showing naked under that. Chris’ brain’s cataloging details in slow motion. Stillness. Pale skin. Must mean something. Not that something. Can’t be true.

He flings a glance at Sebastian’s father as if he can somehow make this be unreal. Marcus looks not like the implacable head of New York’s criminal underworld, but like a man gazing at the body of his only son.

Rain pours down beyond the open door. A mourning backdrop painted in wet grey.

“No,” Chris says, and it’s out loud this time, out loud and broken, frantic last-gasp protests escaping like crumpled butterfly-wings, like torn sheet music Sebastian’s hands won’t play again. “No, please no, Sebastian—“

In Nikolaj’s arms, Sebastian stirs.

Stirs, and breathes, and murmurs something too quiet to hear. Nikolaj sighs; Sebastian says it again, and Nikolaj very gently sets him on his feet.

Chris takes a step. Shaking.

Sebastian meets Chris’ eyes. Tries to take a step. Grabs his bodyguard’s shoulder for support.

Chris runs.

They collide with each other in desperation, holding on, sliding to the floor. “I love you,” Chris is saying, over and over, “I love you, Sebastian, oh God, you’re--here--I thought--oh God,” and Sebastian’s touching him, fingertips seeking Chris’ face and chest and arms like he can’t believe this is real, the way neither of them can believe this is real.

“I’m fine,” Sebastian whispers, clinging to him, “I’m--Chris, I love you, _te iubesc,_ I love you, I’m here,” and Nikolaj gets down on the floor with them and says, “I don’t believe I am familiar with the meaning of _fine_ that involves myself performing emergency surgery upon your stomach,” and Sebastian tries to laugh and chokes on pain instead. Chris looks up across that tumble of blood-splashed dark hair and finds Nikolaj’s gaze and breathes _thank you, thank you,_ without a sound.

“We are only here,” Nikolaj points out, “because he threatened to do himself more harm otherwise. He needs proper medical attention _now_. Even I can only do so much with a portable emergency kit.”

“Oh God,” Chris says again, hands hovering, hands fluttering uselessly across him: so _much_ blood, bandages, nakedness, bruises…blood _everywhere_ , stomach and legs and streaked higher and lower, and Sebastian must be so badly injured, must be--but he’s talking, saying he’s here and alive, how can he be, how can that be true--

Sebastian lifts a hand. Fumbles for Chris’. Chris grabs cold pianist’s fingers. “I’m here, I’m right here, I love you, oh, Christ, Sebastian…”

“You love me.” Sebastian stops to catch breath. His face is white, but his eyes are clear. “You. Chris. You love _me_.”

Chris nods, while tears fall from his face to Sebastian’s. He holds that hand, presses it to his cheek, closes his eyes.

“Chris.” Sebastian’s fingers brush his skin. “Look at me? Please.”

He does. Sebastian’s asking.

Sebastian’s looking at him: injured and in pain but steady and true, not backing down or concealing any emotion, and that pale blue determination wraps Chris up and refuses to let go.

“I’m here,” Sebastian tells him. “I’m…not fine, I will admit…as much, everything hurts…rather a lot and I want you to hold me…but I’m okay. I promise, Chris. I swear. I’m here.” One more pause for breath: “I love you.”

“Love you…you’re okay…”

“It looks…worse than it is…you love me.”

“I love you.”

This time Sebastian nods, having run out of words in the face of pain, but that nod says: we love each other, I mean it and I know you mean it, I can know that now, I know you. I know and you know and we’re here together.

Kind of a lot for one gesture, but Chris gets it. Sebastian’s eyes’re shining. He feels the same.

Sebastian’s father, across the living room, takes one small step toward the knot of shuddering relief. One hand half-lifted, pulled back. Tears visible. Silent.

Sebastian looks up, doubtless sensing the weight of that gaze. Winces again, as makeshift stitches tug. Closes his eyes, opens them, secure in Chris’ arms. Holds out a hand.

Marcus stumbles over and ends up on his knees with Sebastian’s hand clasped in both of his. Whispers something in Romanian, and then, “I thought you--I thought I’d--”

“I’m fine,” Sebastian says once more, “ _Tată_ ,” and Nikolaj snorts inelegantly but Chris thinks that maybe, maybe, that’s not _too_ implausibly far from true.

 

Sebastian, in the aftermath, sleeps a lot. More than he’d expected. He also hurts a lot. Turns out getting shot--even tidily and not anyplace vital--and branded with hot iron and half-strangled takes a hefty toll.

Chris doesn’t leave his side unless forced to for surgery-related reasons, and even then is right there when Sebastian opens hazy eyes. Right there, holding his hand.

He drifts off under the reassuring twin influences of morphine and Chris’ voice singing to him: Sinatra and Presley, _The Little Mermaid_ and _Aladdin_. He wakes to discover that Chris has snuck in hot cocoa and is willing to give him small sips as protection against the dry chill of hospital air.

His mother comes by, at least once while he’s awake, though Chris tells him she’s been there before. She’s holding her new husband’s hand. She cries a little; they both hug him. Then she scolds him for fifteen minutes about scaring her to death, and they both maybe cry some more. She hugs Chris too, and makes him promise to call her Mama. Sebastian smiles; Chris blushes.

In the doorway she encounters Sebastian’s father, coming in as she’s going out. They trip over each other and stop and after a moment her eyes soften, and she reaches out to take his hand. Sebastian falls asleep again at that point, but nothing happens to wake him, and when he opens his eyes and looks around only Chris is there, dozing in a chair.

Nikolaj turns up, one arm in a sling. Sebastian cocks an eyebrow at him. His bodyguard arches one right back, and settles into a chair on the other side of the bed without a word. He nods at Chris. Chris nods back. Sebastian wonders when they’ve become best friends, and wonders it all over again when Chris offers to run out and find coffee and Nikolaj accepts. Parallel universe. Or else he’s still dreaming. Must be.

By the second week he’s more awake and more bored than anything else, though various places continue to hurt if he moves too suddenly. He wants to go home, though. In actual fact he wants to go to Chris’ apartment and curl up in Chris’ bed because that feels like home, but what he says is, “I could entirely sneak out of here, you know, I am a juvenile delinquent.”

Chris laughs. Leans over, sprawled in a too-small chair with an elbow propped on the bed, and starts playing with his hair. “Wouldn’t get far without me.”

“I’d take you with me. Support. Human walking aid.”

“I’d trip over the first mop we ran into. Not your best choice for a living cane.”

Sebastian ponders possible responses, and opts for, perfectly straight-faced, “Sugar cane, perhaps? You are decidedly sweet to me,” and then has to laugh out loud at the look on Chris’ face, and _then_ swears in German and English, because _ouch_.

“Yeah,” Chris says, exasperated and fond, “you’re not going anywhere,” and kisses his temple. “TV? _Cosmos?_ There’s a marathon.”

“If you kiss me again.”

“Totally yes,” Chris agrees, doing it, “Highness.”

“Quiet,” Sebastian murmurs between little lip-nibbles and licks, wishing Chris would get the message about fragility and his lack thereof, “puppy.”

“Uncomfortably adorable,” Nikolaj says cheerfully from a shadow. Sebastian doesn’t bother ceasing to kiss Chris. Only waves a hand that direction. “Don’t watch, then.”

Nikolaj clears his throat.

Sebastian, tempted to snap back words about being busy--really, he’s just nearly died, he’s allowed to kiss his other half senseless--pulls lips reluctantly away from Chris’ skin and turns and spots his father in the doorway.

Marcus doesn’t blush or glance away, but does radiate something like embarrassment. Sebastian’s never seen his father be embarrassed before.

Belatedly, he remembers to say, “Hi?”

Marcus nods back. “Sebastian. Christopher…Nikolaj, thank you, you can…stay…”

The pause extends. Shuffling its feet in sterile hospital air.

“Oh,” Sebastian says, someplace between taking a guess at the reason for the visit and searching for a topic, “they, ah…the doctors…there might be one more procedure. My leg. To make it less…it’s rather ugly. Right now. It can be less so. Cosmetic.”

“Ah.” Marcus shifts weight. Rustles a bag in one hand. “That’s…good. If you want it. You--you don’t have to--you know you can have anything you want. So. If you want to.”

Chris squeezes his hand; Sebastian taps fingers over artist’s knuckles in return. “I do. I don’t want--it won’t be pretty, I don’t care if it’s ever pretty again, but this way it won’t say his name.”

Marcus opens his mouth, stops, seems unsure how to handle this information, delivered with confidence. Finally: “I brought you a present.”

“Really?” He tries to get his expression to say: _it’s okay, come on, come in._ Tries not to laugh: he’s never in a million years imagined this reversal of circumstances.

His father hands over the bag. Sebastian opens it. And then nearly drops the contents out of shock. “Is this a _signed first edition_ of _Foundation_?”

“Nikolaj said you like science fiction…Asimov…” And that tone’s an apology. Offered by a man who hopelessly wishes he’d not had to ask his son’s bodyguard what said son enjoys for fun.

Sebastian swallows. Hard. New ache in his throat. Behind his eyes. Chris tightens that grip on his hand, but doesn’t interrupt.

He says, a little cautiously, picking out the way ahead, “I do. _Da_. We were…Chris was saying we might watch an episode of _Cosmos_ , before I fall asleep again, if you…would you like to join us?”

Marcus glances at Nikolaj with the expression of someone who has no idea what _Cosmos_ is. Nikolaj shrugs without moving. Marcus sits down. Sebastian grins, and turns up the volume as Neil deGrasse Tyson’s voice comes on, narrating the birth of stars.


	13. Amateur Cartography

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy endings. Yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll be one more chapter that's just an epilogue that consists of all our head-canon and ideas about what the future holds for them--probably up tonight. :-)
> 
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> Title for this last chapter, of course, from The Weakerthans' "Aside": _I breathe in deep before/ I spread those maps out on my bedroom floor/ and I'm leaning on this broken fence/ between past and present tense..._

Sebastian, while reluctantly and privately admitting that he needs the recovery time, gets exponentially more frustrated with enforced bed rest over the following days.

It’s not all bad. He gets to read. He gets to hold Chris’ hand. He has visitors, an impressive stream of them. His father, in and out and often silent but asking questions on occasion about the science-fiction novel of the day. His mother. Christine, who brings him chocolate-chip banana bread, somewhat tentatively. He thinks that she makes his father happy; he smiles at her.

The lovely Margarita sends flowers. Big and floppy, they bloom in a cacophony of light around the sterile room. Scarlet and saffron, indigo and ivory.

Anthony comes by with handmade cards from his students at the school. They seem to be assuming he’s sick; he’s unsure what story’s been sent around, but the cards are precious and messy and smudged with glue and paint and scribbled get-well messages. They miss him, they say. They’ve been learning music for him. A surprise. He feels something odd in his chest. Lightness. Like crying, but not. Anthony pats him on the shoulder and says the piano’s there whenever he is, and he should see the new paint and the working toilets, man, thanks to you, you and Evans over there…

Sebastian has the fleeting impulse to bury himself in pillows and pretend to fall asleep, unable to face such gratitude, afraid the strange feeling’s about to turn into real tears. Chris jumps in, says the thank you, says Sebastian needs to rest.

“No problem,” Anthony agrees genially, and goes, stopping to flirt with a nurse along the way, not seriously.

Chris rubs his back for a while. Sebastian surfaces from pillows faintly embarrassed, suddenly thirsty, clinging to Chris’s hand; but more or less okay.

Chris’ family comes to see him too. Not all at once; he suspects Chris has stage-managed a bit-by-bit introduction. Scott, whom he’s technically met on the phone, pops over on a day off from soap-opera filming and sprawls across a chair and says, “I _knew_ you were cute, you _totally_ have a cute voice, so tell me what getting shot feels like, ’cause I need to know for next week’s episode.” Sebastian, after a split second of astonishment, suggests, “Painful?”

This non-answer causes Scott to fling a pillow at him. The pillow--which is in fact aimed to miss--causes Chris to let out an inarticulate squawk of protective rage and tackle his brother. Some more shouting happens in the hall.

When they come back in, Scott says, “Um, sorry,” much chastened and rubbing a bicep. Sebastian decides, “I might’ve come up with the wrong adjective, perhaps I meant something weightier, being shot is very serious, so maybe… _holy?_ ” and launches one of his own pillows back.

Two days after the Scott-plus-projectile-bedding encounter, Chris’ mother appears. She’s not there when Sebastian dozes off mid-afternoon, clinging to Chris’ hand, morphine dialed up because they’d been reshaping the scars on his leg that morning, vicious initials smoothed and flattened into a blotchy sort of star; he’s feeling sick and sore and fretful. Chris had held onto him throughout and has continued holding on since, white-faced and tight-lipped and resolute; Sebastian falls asleep with that unassailable commitment at his side.

He awakens in a dim room, lights turned down. They’re letting him sleep; he’s hurting and foggy with drugs, but he can feel Chris’ fingers in his, and he smiles. Chris, who’s had an equally rough day of waiting and then watching over him, is asleep also, leaning on--

On a woman who’s obviously his mother. She’s got an arm around her son, and she’s watching him with maternal fondness, sitting in a chair dragged over beside his.

She’s kind. He knows that instantly: she’s kind in the way that Chris is kind. Strong and loyal and generous and true.

He looks at Chris, too. They gaze at that sleeping face together.

Chris has been crying. Long eyelashes clumped and drying. Tear-tracks over freckles in non-light, illuminated by instrument-panel glow. Slumped shoulders like the setting down of a mountain.

When he glances back, Chris’ mother’s watching him instead. He doesn’t know what she’s seeing, but it makes her smile.

She fishes around in her bag without disturbing the large exhausted muscles propped up on her shoulder. Holds up a big navy-blue sweater. Sebastian’s confused.

Chris wakes up with a jolt and a flail. “Sebastian? Seb--Mom, is Seb--”

“Love you,” Sebastian says. “I think you’re getting a sweater.”

“No he’s not,” Chris’ mother disagrees amiably. “This one’s for you. Hospitals get cold, you know.”

The sweater’s warm and smells faintly of fresh laundry and Chris’ cologne. She brought one that Chris actually wears, he understands: one that says _home_ to all his senses.

Their eyes meet across fabric. And he knows Chris has told her: not everything, perhaps, but some. Who he is, what his family is, what he’s done, if not the details. Why he’s in a hospital bed, if not the specifics.

Her gaze says only: _thank you for saving my son._

Sebastian might be blushing--his ears feel hot, though he’s not blushed in years--but attempts to answer, equally soundless: _he’s worth everything, forever._

“Why don’t I get a sweater?” Chris nudges. “Also, Mom, meet Sebastian. Seb, my mom.”

“Lisa,” she says. “Please. And it’s because I like him better already.”

“Fair enough,” Chris accepts. “So do I.”

“Do I get a vote?” Sebastian inquires. “Because I might have to disagree. With polite apologies. I like Chris. And I have no qualms about playing the invalid card.” He’s pretty sure he’s reading Chris’ mother correctly, an impression cemented by the resultant grin. His leg throbs, but companionably so. Plus he’s got a sweater that smells like Chris wrapped around his shoulders.

“I brought you an entire change of clothes,” Lisa Evans notes for Chris’ benefit. “My poor neglected son. I also brought cookies. And I’ll let you two have your space.”

Sebastian says, “You don’t have to leave,” while his self of three months ago regards this sentence with shock. “We promise to behave.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow.” She hops out of the chair. “With Chris’ baby pictures. Whole photo albums.”

“Oh no, Mom, fuck--”

“And I’m gone, so you don’t _have_ to behave--” She puts her head back around the door. “Chris, don’t tire him out!”

Chris groans. Sebastian wants to know what Chris’s gotten up to in the past that renders this warning necessary. “Come tire me out a small amount?”

“Mom might kill me. She’ll know. And she apparently adores you.” But Chris comes over and sits on the side of the bed and strokes a hand through Sebastian’s hair. “Still bad?”

“Better than earlier. I’m mostly…well, tired. It’s…I didn’t realize it would be so…large.” Large and blurry, no longer a banner bearing certain initials but never going away, either.

Chris’ hand tenses a fraction, catching strands. His voice stays controlled, in the manner of someone putting a lot of effort into control. “You know I love you.”

“What? No. Yes. I mean yes.” He turns his head--he’s lying half-reclined among pillow-fluff, regally enthroned--and finds anxious eyes. “I know you do. I know you don’t care.”

Chris’ other hand grabs for his. Squeezes. “You got that--all those scars--saving me. God, how can I--I can tell you every day how fuckin’ incredible that is, because it is, you are--”

“Chris.” One squeeze in reply. “I meant what I said. Only what I said. Surprised. Yes?”

“Oh…yes…yeah?”

“Yes. It’s mine. Ours. I’m here. With you. And annoyingly exhausted.”

“Then sleep,” Chris breathes, “go back to sleep, and I’ll stay right here,” and Sebastian closes his eyes to the sensation of Chris’s fingers running through his hair.

Lisa Evans does return with baby pictures and two Evans sisters. They bring cronuts. Sebastian looks at Chris; Chris holds up hands in self-defense. “I just said you liked them.”

“That’s not all you said,” says the first sister. “I remember a lot more sappy adjectives. Major quoting of love songs.”

“When we tried to get you to go home and take a shower,” says the second sister, “you called Carly a heartless--”

“You took a shower,” Sebastian interjects. Chris’d had wet hair that morning. He’s fairly hazy on details, given the morphine, but he remembers Chris.

“I showered here.” Chris squeezes his hand. “When the nurses were checking on you.” And, to the one who’s presumably Carly, “Sorry. At least about that part.”

“Are you kidding? I can hold this over your head forever. Make you feel terrible about it.” But her smile says she mostly won’t. She understands.

The Evans family seems to be good at that. Understanding.

They talk to each other, share family gossip, hug Chris, ask for stories about how he and Sebastian met. Sebastian naps on and off--some real, some fake--and listens in on the camaraderie and occasionally contributes. Because he’s somewhat cloudy from drugs, he actually says at one point, to the sister who’s a high-school drama teacher, “I think I wore one of your shirts to sleep in, I mean from your school,” and then wants to kick his brain, except he’s only got one functional leg. He really hadn’t meant to interrupt Chris telling that story--turning it into a far fluffier sanitized tale for family--of shared-night refuge.

But she seems to have no trouble deciphering this, and in fact points a delighted finger at Chris. “You gave it to him, didn’t you? Is _that_ why you bought so many during the fundraiser?”

“So _cute!”_ declares the other sister gleefully.

Chris, mouth full, flicks cronut crumbs at them. Sebastian smiles: happy because Chris is happy, happy and wistful, happy because they’re a family.

Chris’ mother catches his eye. She’s smiling at him: private and calm. She says, under cover of a sibling squabble over lemon filling, “Remind me to tell you the story about how they ruined the wallpaper, sometime; it’ll be excellent blackmail material…”

Chris, overhearing--and giving up on the last pastry--protests, “That was Scott!”

“No it wasn’t,” Lisa Evans says sagely. “You convinced him to confess even though he wasn’t even there, my terrible mastermind son.”

Chris stares at his mother for a minute, then at his siblings, one of whom hisses, “It wasn’t us! Mom just knows _everything!”_

“Someone tell me this story,” Sebastian requests, regaining a modicum of equilibrium with the unexpected support of Chris’ mother’s smile; and they fall over themselves trying to do so, while Chris holds his hand.

The Monday after that, he’s feeling mostly better, enough to order Chris to go home and sleep. Chris protests; Chris yawns; Chris gets escorted out by Sebastian’s father, who decrees that if Sebastian wants space for a few hours and a well-rested Chris, then Sebastian will get those things. Sebastian laughs softly, shuts his eyes, tips his head back against the pillow in his suddenly empty private hospital room.

Space. A bodyguard outside the room, his father’s taking no chances, but nevertheless: space.

He lies very still for a while, not reading the books they’ve brought him, smiling briefly at the balloon Scott’d tied to a chair-arm. It tells him to Get Well Soon! in neon blue and yellow and silver.

He touches his thigh, above blankets. His stomach: more bandages there. He can’t see either very well; when he sits up, holes in his gut argue vehemently.

The room’s very quiet, lacking noise and presence to fill it up. Monitors purring. The bobbing balloon.

He knows how close a call it’d been. He’s talked to his doctors. He’s seen Chris’ face.

He breathes, in and out; he feels the shaky rush of air in lungs. He’s alive. He’s safe. He’s loved.

He flops down into pillows, and laughs again, hand pressed over his mouth, staring at the ceiling. It grins back, cool and white; the ridiculous balloon floats at the end of its tether, giddy.

Someone knocks on his door, and then comes in. “Sebastian? How’re you doing?”

“Fine,” Sebastian says, sitting up more and attempting to look less like someone balanced on the threshold of hysterical comprehension of life. “Better. Bored. Can I leave yet?”

Doctor Ruffalo, who’s repeatedly told Sebastian to call him Mark, snorts at him. “No. Sorry. Blood pressure.”

Sebastian holds still obediently. Mostly.

“What’d you take this time?”

“Your pen. I’ll stop, I’m sorry, I’m just--”

“Bored, yeah, you said.” Mark rolls eyes at him and accepts the return of the pickpocketed pen. “Looks like you’re doin’ okay.”

“Please,” Sebastian tries. He’s restless now: antsy for no good reason. Like he wants to jump up and run out of the hospital. Like he wants to find Chris and kiss Chris senseless and tell Chris all about this strange revelation, about being alive and happy and how incredible that is, as if Chris doesn’t know. “I’ll stop practicing juvenile delinquent skills on your lab coat. I promise. _Please_.”

He’s better at picking locks, but he’s not above picking pockets for entertainment, and dexterous fingers work well for that. He’s gotten handcuff keys away from intoxicated partners before, among other useful items. Right now he’s got a small collection of the contents of his favorite doctor’s lab coat. He should probably give back the quarters. Useful for late-night vending-machine runs.

Mark considers this offer, sitting down in Chris’ vacated chair. “How’re you feeling on the Vicodin?” They’d switched him over that morning. Plans to lower the dose gradually. No more scheduled procedures.

“It hurts,” Sebastian admits, “but not as much as I expected. I can handle it.” At this point it’s all a dull healing kind of pain, as his body knits itself back together. “If I’m just going to lie around and steal your stethoscope--sorry, here--you could send me home.”

“Well…” Mark picks up his chart, reads, makes a pondering-options face. “You are kinda taking up bed space, kid…”

“Yes, I am, so--”

“Okay. Bargain. Today’s Monday. If you agree to two…no, three…things I’ll send you home Friday.”

Sebastian opens his mouth.

“Only if you convince me you mean it.”

Sebastian closes his mouth, puts on his best trustworthy expression, and nods. Mark snorts at him again. “Nice try. First one, you start physical therapy tomorrow. And you keep going, at least twice a week, until I say you can stop. Even after you’re home. You’ve been in bed for a while with a few holes in you, and that leg’s gonna need work, and you’re gonna hate me and your therapist and probably everyone around you, but that’s your first condition, got it?”

Meekly: “Yes.” He knows it’ll hurt. He knows it’s necessary. So that’s that.

“Second thing.” Mark leans in, rests elbows on knees, eyes serious. “I want you to listen to what I’m about to say, and I want you to tell me you understand, okay?”

“Ah…yes?”

“Okay. ’Cause you do need to know, and we need to talk.” Mark sighs, runs a hand through curling grey-brown hair. “You’re gonna have to take care of yourself, after this. Don’t interrupt, just listen, and don’t touch my wallet, either, not yet. You…when we brought you in that first night, triage, I didn’t ask, I saw your whole entourage and I know what dangerous people look like, I’m a doctor, I can do math. But, kid. A gunshot wound, a burn from a branding iron…those bruises…you came in with pretty heavy illegal opiate derivatives in your system and you, um. There was evidence of, y’know, sexual activity in the past twenty-four--”

“What--you think I was some sort of _sex_ slave--what even--no! I mean--” He gives up. “What the _fuck_ , Mark.”

“I don’t need to know the details,” Mark continues, “if you can’t tell me, if you don’t feel safe. And, look, it’s not my place to tell you how to live your life, well, okay, it _is_ , I’m your doctor, but I want you to know we have resources, we can help, just say the word and we can--”

“Oh, God,” Sebastian attempts, cheeks burning, face resolutely buried in hands. “No. _Pula mea._ No. Okay, yes, it _is_ what you think-- _sort_ of, not precisely--or it _was_ , but--I’m done. I swear to you I’m done. The--the sex--that had _nothing_ to do with--he’s my boyfriend. Oh fuck, Chris is my _boyfriend_ \--” and then he stumbles over language, awed by the sound of the word. “But no. I’m--that’s over. I don’t know what I’m doing now, but not that.” And it’s true. It’s all so radiantly true.

“Okay,” Mark says, “but I wasn’t done. That’s half of it, and that’s good to hear, really good, but now you have to listen to the rest. And I could sugarcoat this, but I think you can handle some pretty blunt answers, so I’ll just tell you, if that’s what you want.”

“I’m stealing _all_ your stethoscopes. Go ahead.”

Mark regards him gravely. “You won’t be the same. You won’t recover, not a hundred percent.”

Abrupt chill. Bitter and isolating. Breath gone from his lungs.

“Maybe ninety-five,” Mark goes on. “I’m sorry. But you need to know, and I don’t want you to expect miracles even with PT. That leg--the nerve endings, the muscle fibers, deep tissue, that’s serious damage, kid. Cauterization. Amateur-style, and you’re lucky you didn’t lose the whole leg to infection or sheer damn clumsiness--look, it’ll get better and you’ll walk fine, maybe a little bit of a limp, but it won’t regrow itself, all those dead spots. You’ll have numb places. Visible scarring. Less range of motion, probably. Depends on how good you are about therapy and stretching. Like I said, you won’t get a hundred percent of it back. Ninety-five, ninety-eight.”

Sebastian nods, very slowly. He’s remembering how to breathe. Bad. Yes. Never the same. But he’d been expecting worse. Braced for it.

Mark clearly assumes he’s in shock because he’s been anticipating better news. “Still with me? I’m sorry, kid, I know it’s not easy to hear. Look at me?”

“I’m all right,” Sebastian whispers, and then says it again, louder, just in case. “I understand.”

“Yeah?” Mark actually checks his pulse, solicitous and ostentatious about it. Sebastian glares--normality sinking back in--and hands back his doctor’s pocket pack of fruit-flavored breath mints. “ _Da_. Yes. _Yeah_.”

“Say it without being sarcastic.”

Sebastian meets his gaze. “I--” Saying the words out loud proves unexpectedly difficult. “It won’t be-- _I_ won’t be the same. Almost. But. Never quite what I--as good as I was.” The next breath catches in his throat, and dies. Beyond Mark’s head the balloon turns its silvery face away.

“Hey, now,” Mark says softly, “I didn’t say that, you’re just gonna have to be good in a different way, maybe you can give up long-distance running and be a professional magician, here, you can have my wallet if you want, left pocket.”

And Sebastian breathes out, one long shuddering exhale that’s not quite a laugh. “I’ve already checked. Only five dollars. Hardly worth it.”

“I’m insulted. At least we’re getting rid of you this week, kid.”

“And…I…thought doctors were supposed to have money. Three things, you said.”

“Oh, yeah.” Mark grins at him. “You know Doctor Robert? On night shifts, sometimes?”

“Yes?”

“You know that thing you do constantly where you pickpocket me for fun?”

“…yes?”

“Think you can get me the keys to his Porsche? I don’t want to steal it, I just want to fill his car with rainbow-colored confetti some night.”

“I think,” Sebastian says, “I can do that,” while his mouth tugs itself into a smile. Been doing that a lot lately. More often than he remembers.

Mark holds out a hand, and they shake on it, and Mark departs, whistling on his way out the door.

Sebastian, left alone in his room with the promise of Friday dangling like a present, touches his leg again. Lifts the corner of hospital blankets. Wiggles around for a better angle. So many bandages and dressings. So many scars.

So many ways he’ll not be the same. Inside and out. No going back.

He traces fingers around the edges of white fabric, where it guards his thigh. His skin shivers: not yet pain, but a warning. The outside’s more sensitive now. Other places’ll be dull, but not there.

A sound. In the doorway. He drops the blanket, turns.

Chris breathes his name a second time, eyes huge. Sebastian realizes that Chris has just walked in on silence and himself contemplating, even poking at, his injuries. “I’m fine, come in, come here--”

Chris comes but sits down gingerly, as if afraid one wrong move’ll land them both in quicksand. He’s holding a copy of Andy Weir’s _The Martian_ because Sebastian’d expressed interest in the book; he’s changed and showered and even trimmed his beard, as if getting ready to meet with a world-renowned dignitary in a hospital room. Sebastian’s stupidly ludicrously head-over-heels in love with him.

Chris takes his hand. “Sebastian…?”

“Is it being vain,” Sebastian asks, “if I’m not sure I like them? The scars.”

This prompts a baffled stare. “No?”

“It’s only…I don’t know how to say this, it’ll sound terrible…I’m used to being--it’s why I was so good at--” He sighs, shrugs a shoulder. Doesn’t know how to put that one into words: he _is_ used to being pretty. Part of who he was, what he did, what he thought of as himself. And now he’s not.

It’s an odd kind of mourning, and a bizarre thing to feel hollow about given that he’s alive and Chris is alive and moments ago he’d felt like dancing on rooftops. But.

He won’t be able to dance for a long time. The livid weals can be covered by clothing, and the bruises on his face and throat’ve already nearly healed, so that much won’t’ve changed--but he won’t look the same, naked.

Pretty. Chris once called him so. Even young Amber said it: good thing you are.

He knows Chris won’t care about the scars.

And this makes him feel more ridiculous _for_ caring, even a miniscule amount; he glances away, eyes the tranquil wafting balloon, which knows very little about beauty.

“It’s not that I even mind--” he adds at last, right at the second Chris starts in with, “Sebastian, you know I don’t care about--”

“I know you don’t, never mind--”

“No, but you do. It’s important to you.” Chris lifts his hand, brushes a kiss over startled knuckles. “It’s not being vain, and it’s not stupid. It’s a piece of you.”

“I’d do it again.”

“I know you would. Though I’m kinda hoping you never have to, thanks.”

“He said it wouldn’t ever be the same.” His voice cracks just a fraction, despite best efforts. “As long as you still think I’m pretty, I suppose…”

Chris’ eyes fill up with anguish and comprehension and love. “Always have, always will. It’s who you are.”

Sebastian bites his lip. Hard. That’s precisely the problem, silly small heart-soreness that it is. Chris doesn’t see.

“Stop that.” Chris sets a finger over his mouth. “You’re not listening. Those scars, every one of ’em, that’s who you are. The person who saves people. Me. All of us. So yeah, always gonna think you’re beautiful, no arguing. Not about this.”

Sebastian kisses the fingertip. Shuts his eyes, opens them. Nods. “Not about this…about other things, perhaps. Apparently I’m going to be awful after physical therapy. You’ve been warned.”

Chris’ expression, in direct contradiction of the content of this sentence, brightens right up. “They’re letting you out of bed? Awesome!”

“When I said it wouldn’t be the same,” Sebastian says, reaching up to take that hand into his, “I meant that my doctor is evidently a sadist who takes delight in frightening me. That was how he introduced the topic.” And how I told you, he thinks, because I was afraid, because some part of me was afraid, and I needed to know what you’d say. I’m sorry. I am sorry for that, now.

Old reflexes go down fighting. He’ll work on blunting those defensive spikes. He’s got time. They’ve got time. And Chris is here.

He says, “Ninety-five percent. With a possibility of better. If I’m good.”

Chris’ whole body sags with reaction. “Christ. I thought--when you said--”

“ _Da_. I did as well.”

“Ninety-five percent,” Chris grumbles, “what _even_ , that’s basically _fine_ , he shouldn’t scare you like that,” moving from relief to joy to offended watchdog ire in the span of a sentence. “You know I’d be here no matter what. But, I mean, I am glad it’s not worse. I mean--you know what I mean.”

“Most of the time. And…I do know. Thank you.” He pauses, makes a face, adds, “Unfortunately, no strenuous activity, even yet,” and Chris laughs.

“Sex off the table? Or--” One pause on that side too. Memories, awareness of kidnapper’s obsession and unrealized possibilities and near-miss escape, in that Boston-harbor voice. “Um. Whenever you feel up to that. Up to you.”

“I,” Sebastian says contentedly, “feel very up to that. It was my idea, just now,” and he watches Chris smile.

“I love you.” And with the words Chris leans over and sets a hand on his knee: below the thigh-bandage, not touching, but not afraid of it. Eyes amused, loving, level with his. “I told you last time that I’d say it whenever you need me to. I think you’re beautiful. Incredible. Prettier than Scott’s balloon. All the adjectives.”

“Prettier than a balloon,” Sebastian muses, “well, I imagine that’s acceptable, though I’m not sure that particular example of your brother’s taste is entirely comforting…” This gets Chris to glance at him sharply, recognize tentative teasing, and settle down with more relaxed shoulders. “I love you. And I meant what I said, as well. I would do it again, and I don’t regret it.”

“I know you don’t.” Sure as New England bedrock, as incontrovertible heart-shaped stone.

“So we both know. Read to me? Until I fall asleep.”

“Of course,” Chris says, “of course,” and opens up the book to the first page; opens it one-handed, because his other hand’s now holding Sebastian’s, elbow propped on the side of the hospital bed.

Mars, Sebastian thinks, holding on in turn. Mars and astronauts and possibilities and survival.

He hasn’t told Chris quite everything. Not about Friday and promises. Deliberate, that. He lets the cadence of Chris’ voice fall over him, warm like the old leather bomber jacket he’d once borrowed, warm like the fingers in his.

He listens drowsily while Chris reads about determination and scientific know-how, and in his head he makes plans. A surprise. Romance, as much as he can manage. For that voice, for that warmth: everything Chris deserves and should have at last.

Friday. And a future after that, unspooling like glittering thread. Yes.

He’s aware he’s about to drift off, lulled by tiredness emotional and physical, cradled by painkillers and comfortable love. He thinks he’s probably going to fall asleep smiling.

 

Friday morning. Start of visiting hours. Chris comes bounding up the stairs and down the hospital hallway. Waves at the nurses at their station. They wave back. One of them’s grinning. Must be in a good mood.

Chris is in a good mood as well. Sebastian’s doing fantastically well--better than they’d expected, even given his first real physical therapy appointment yesterday. Tuesday’s had been mostly evaluation; Thursday had left him worn out and shaky and sweaty but glowing with elation. He’s managed weight on that leg, actual walking, stretching, being up and around in defiance of healing craters. They’re both thrilled.

He rounds a corner. Maybe he skips a little. He’s a grown man on the way to see the love of his life, who is going to be absolutely fine and wonderful, and they’re going to read science fiction and hold hands. So he can skip down the corridor if he wants to.

He swings into the private room at the end of the hallway, and--

Stops.

Heart pounding. No. Heart stopping too.

The room’s empty. Bed tidily made. No presence left. No books or balloons or get-well cards from the school. No Sebastian.

No _Sebastian_ \--

“Oh God--” Chris chokes out. The unoccupied bed dances before his eyes. Flirting with black spots. With airless collapsing of lungs.

A hand touches his shoulder. He practically jumps out of his skin.

The nurse who’d grinned at him earlier advises, “He’s fine, we all knew about this, he said we should tell you to check the bed if you didn’t think of it,” and then pats him reassuringly a second time.

“He…said…wait, you knew…”

“Here.” She crosses over to the bed, picks up a note. Brings it back to him. “Need to sit down?”

“Yeah…thanks…” The note’s simple. Written on expensive creamy notepaper, heavy, with artistically torn edges. It says, _Hi, Chris! First, I’m fine, so remember to breathe and tell Tina if you’re not okay, please._

“Hi,” his nurse says. “I’m Tina.”

“Oh…hi…um, I’m Chris…”

“I know, sweetie.”

 _Second_ , the writing goes on, _I’m allowed out of here now, so I thought we should have a proper date. And I believe it’s finally my treat. And I love you._

Chris sniffles. Blinks back tears. Wants to hug Sebastian’s note to his heart. He knows it’s Sebastian’s handwriting even without having ever seen it before. Sweet and slightly spiky and a little messy, tall loops of letters and angles, but flawlessly readable, when given as a gift.

 _So_ , Sebastian concludes, _first clue: peanut butter and honey and bananas. Go._

Peanut butter and honey--

“I’m guessing,” Tina summarizes, beaming, “that you know what he means.”

“I do--I mean, yeah, I think--”

“Then why’re you still here? Go!” Other nurses wave arms at him: shooing him out the door.

Chris laughs, lurches to his feet, clutches his note possessively. Sebastian. Sebastian; and Chris loves him so damn much; and his feet take wing and fly him all the way across town to his apartment, where he crashes through the door shouting “I love you!” and laughing like a lunatic, light-hearted and free. “Sebastian?”

Silence; but three items twinkle back at him.

A tower of, yes, peanut-butter-and-honey-and-banana sandwiches, the food he’d tried to offer on that first terrifying astonishing night of refuge, in a pyramid on his kitchen table. An absolutely stunning box of satin-hued colored drawing-pencils, a set Chris has lusted after and been unable to afford _forever_ , opened up and shining like a rainbow kaleidoscope beside the food. One more note, this one balanced against the pencil-box, cream on black.

Elvis Presley’s singing quietly in the background. Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go.

All of Sebastian’s get-well cards and flowers and balloons and presents have found their way here too. They decorate Chris’ apartment. Fill it up with proof of life: with the knowledge that Sebastian took them here to be at home.

Chris picks up the second note. His hand shakes a little.

This one says, _You forgot to eat breakfast, didn’t you? Eat something!_ And, under that, _I will admit to not knowing much about art, but I did ask around about preferable options. Are these okay? Let me know._

“I love you,” Chris says again: to Sebastian’s generous heart, to fairy-tales come true, to his underworld prince with scars and hopeful big blue eyes. “I love you.” He also puts a whole sandwich in his mouth. Sebastian did tell him to eat.

 _Next one: time to go to school._ It’s signed with a tiny ink-dark music-note.

Chris collects this note too. Tucks it into his pocket with the first: a gathering of pen-ink and paper that Sebastian’s hands’ve touched, that Sebastian put together just for him. The laughter’s transmuted into some deeper fiercer glowing emotion in his heart, magical as alchemists’ gold.

He runs the few blocks to the sun-bathed shining tattered bricks of their school. It recognizes him and accepts his spare key eagerly. Hums with joy on its old foundations.

Music-note, so piano, so--

He finds the piano. Still no Sebastian. But the lid’s closed, satiny dark wood like a promise, and a bottle of sparkling white grape juice plus two crystal champagne flutes are sitting atop it.

This time Sebastian’s note explains, with a little arrow pointing to the bottle, _I am being virtuous! Also on Vicodin. Bring these, if you would. And I love you. And this time you’ll want to think about gazing at stars._

Star-gazing. First-ever nights. A rooftop, bandages, affirmations, a beginning.

Chris maybe gets teary-eyed, picking up this note. He’s not ashamed.

Juggling bottle and fragile glasses and racing heart, he jogs up the stairs. Shoves the creaking door open with a foot and stumbles out into late-morning sunshine, which falls on the scene like benevolent gilded rain.

Nikolaj’s over on the fire escape, not even attempting invisibility; well, they’ve all got some scars, and Chris for one doesn’t mind knowing that Sebastian’s being protected near-obsessively, and so he nods that direction, plus a grin because he can’t not. He gets a return nod, with a fractional  head-tilt toward the couch. Chris has guessed, of course, but the approval’s nice.

He takes a step that way, balancing accessories. Two steps. Close enough to see.

“Hi,” Sebastian says, not sitting up--obviously in deference to mending body parts and exhaustion--but beautiful, God, beautiful.

He’s wearing grey sweatpants and a blue t-shirt that might be Chris’ own under a striped hoodie, and he’s managing to make these items look like the height of runway fashion; his hair’s getting long enough to curl mischievously over one eyebrow, making friends with sunshine. He’s a little pale but his smile unfurls without any restraint at all, as if the sight of Chris makes him feel like being free.

He’s the love of Chris’ life. Lying flat under sunbeams on an ancient battered faded-flower couch.

He pushes himself up on an elbow as Chris gets closer. “I believe flowers are traditional.”

It’s a rose. One single rose, the kind that Chris unabashedly loves drawing: enormous and billowy and crimson, exuberant and vibrant and full-blown.

One more note’s attached to the stem. _Te iubesc._

“I love you,” Sebastian says. “In Romanian. I’ll tell you in every language I know.”

“I love you,” Chris whispers. No one’s ever brought him flowers before. No one else is Sebastian.

His heart’s so full he thinks it might be cracking open: painfully raw emotion, too much to be contained. The morning, the playfulness in quick handwriting, the peanut-butter flavor on his tongue.

He finds an overturned crate to serve as a table, shoves various accoutrements onto it, gets down on one knee to kiss Sebastian. Who kisses back, despite lying mostly prone, with great interest. “Come here.”

“Okay.” They get settled; Sebastian gets most of the sofa but rests his head on Chris’s thigh, nudging Chris’ hand to play with his hair. Chris says, “And you tell me I’m the adorable baby animal in this relationship,” and does as requested. Sebastian’s hair’s sun-warmed and soft, like acorn-silk and light. “How’d you manage all this? And, I mean, wow. Thank you. _Wow_.”

“Strategic planning and extremely muscular assistance.” Which prompts a huff that’s practically a laugh from Nikolaj’s direction. Sebastian’s eyes dance. “He enlisted a few of the others, I believe. Was everything…was this something you…liked, or…”

“Fuckin’ _perfect_ ,” Chris avows, wholehearted and tender: Sebastian might need the confirmation. “I can’t even--I don’t have words. No one’s ever done _anything_ like--for _me_ \--God, thank you, I love you. You kinda scared the crap out of me when you were gone, in the hospital, but--you’re fucking incredible.”

“I’m sorry about the hospital part.”

“You wanted it to be a surprise,” Chris agrees, and strokes fingers through his hair.  “Please don’t tell me you climbed up the fire escape to get in here.”

“Actual stairs. Extraordinarily law-abiding. Well. I did pick the lock on the front door to get in. Ninety-nine percent law-abiding.”

“Wouldn’t be you if there wasn’t some breaking and entering. Got Vicodin?”

Sebastian opens one eye, squinting into late-morning light. Chris obligingly shifts a shoulder to shield him. Sebastian taps a pocket. “I have some. I’m not due for more for…two hours, I think. It’s not bad.”

“Even after stairs.”

“I can _walk_. Slowly. With help. I won’t say I wasn’t tired. But I like it here.”

“Hmm,” Chris says, but lets it go. Too contented. Too happy, breathing in sunshine with his hand in Sebastian’s hair.

“Love you,” Sebastian says. “I was thinking.”

“Love you. What were you thinking?” He finds long elegant pianist’s fingers with his other hand. Laces them into his. “Something good?”

“I think so, yes…or I hope so. I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well,” Chris teases, beckoning, “I’d say you’ve covered all the bases,” and Sebastian laughs, easily and comfortably, no hint of gut-clenching pain.

“I was thinking about what I’d do. Now. What I can do.”

“Anything you want.” He rubs fingers over Sebastian’s hand, tracing knuckle and bone. “You can do anything.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence.” Affectionate, not annoyed; Sebastian’s smiling. “I do love you, _inima mea_. You are aware that whatever we do…together…it won’t be normal. What most people think of as normal. Always bodyguards. Always my family. Even if I leave, we’re connected.”

My heart, Sebastian’d called him. “I know.”

“Then…I was thinking I might like to go back to school. College.” Sebastian looks up at him with the full earnest force of those breathtaking eyes. “I know it won’t be as simple as that--I’d need to get my GED first, equivalency--but I could apply to universities here. New York. I would like to try. Father says he’ll pay my tuition, no matter how much it costs. In fact he also offered to ensure that I got in anyplace I wanted, but I’d rather earn it. I will take the tuition money, however. I believe I have earned that.”

“That’s awesome,” Chris says, because it is, because every word is. “And you so have. Earned it, I mean. What would you want to major in? Do you know?” Music, he’d guess. Or literature. The history of science fiction.

“Specifically…” Sebastian’s eyes sparkle. Turning over possibilities. With enthusiasm. “I was thinking of psychology, in fact. With music or literature as some sort of minor. But…counseling. Working with kids, or--or people who need somewhere to go. A safe space. How art, how the arts, can help people, maybe. Like…therapy.”

“Oh,” Chris says, knocked sideways by amazement and admiration. “Oh, fuck, yeah, yes, totally--I can so see--you’ll be brilliant, of course you will, you--and you know I’ll be there, right, every step of the way--”

“I know,” Sebastian borrows his words from earlier to say. “ _Da_. Yes.”

“You may be a bit busy, Christopher,” Nikolaj puts in, coming over, opening white grape juice because Chris has forgotten to, pouring. Carbonated fizzy sweetness suffuses the air. “You are aware that the public library needs a new mural? And they are holding an open call for submissions? If you do not send in your sketches I will.”

“Hey,” Chris protests, but mildly. “What would I even--the deadline’s next week, I’d need a subject, I--”

“Stories,” Sebastian says, smiling, “fairy-tales, heroes, magical other worlds, perhaps, for a library,” and Chris kisses his fingertips beneath the sunlight and says, thinking of happy endings, “Yeah.”

 


	14. Bonus Tidbits (Map-Making for Their Future)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really literally is just our list of head-canon, trivia, and thoughts on where they might go from here, building a future.

This is what we know:

 

\--Chris and Sebastian don’t move in together _immediately_ \--Sebastian’s never been anyone’s boyfriend before and Chris hasn’t dated anyone in ages--but it doesn’t take very long, either

\--they’re not instantly flawless, of course: Sebastian learns to cook (and is actually very good at it) but is helpless at laundry (“too many settings!”) and is not exactly used to the mundaneity of everyday-people existence and on occasion, especially early on, has a few bad days when he pushes himself too far too fast and his body does give out and he retreats into sarcasm and pain; on the other hand, Chris sometimes feels inadequate and stupid and poor and clumsy (Sebastian comes from this whole other world of glittering power and decadence and criminal royalty, Sebastian nearly died for him, and here Chris is asking him to please remember to put dirty dishes in the dishwasher and not let them grow new life in the sink: good _God_ , Chris)

\--but at the end of the day they love each other, and that matters more than embarrassment or pride, and they talk things through when they need to

 

\--so Chris’ reputation grows steadily--not overnight success, but definite continuous upward trajectory, and he gets to be pretty famous, commissions and work hanging in galleries all over the place: Chris Evans the artist!

\--Sebastian gets that psychology degree (plus extra majors in music and literature because he can’t resist), not just one degree but progressively more and more impressive graduate-school variations with lots of initials

\--Sebastian ends up being extremely well-known for his work with troubled kids especially and his success at art-related creative therapy and rehabilitation

 

\--they agree to not think about marriage until Seb’s at least done with his undergraduate studies, but of course they both think about it anyway; it’s Chris who proposes, the morning of Sebastian's graduation, because they wake up together holding each other in their bed in their apartment with the future unfolding in front of them and he just can’t wait

\--the ceremony’s relatively intimate, just close friends and family

\--Nikolaj gets to hold their rings

\--it turns out that Nikolaj's favorite second-in-command of the other bodyguards on Seb’s detail, the one Nikolaj tends to leave in charge when he himself can't be around, Augusto, is actually ordained (it's a long story), so that’s what they do, because sure, why not; and Augusto’s so proud he’s practically levitating

\--both mothers cry; maybe Sebastian's father does too, but he'll threaten to dismember anyone who says so

\--the ceremony might be small but the afterparty’s _huge_ , with Anthony and Scarlett and the kids from their school mingling with Scott’s actor friends, and Margarita and her friends, and Jeremy and Doctor Mark, and everyone who’s ever cared about them all brought together in celebration

 

\--and later on they buy a big rambling historic mansion in which they have Sebastian’s study for home consultations, and Chris’ art studio, and a giant library full of science fiction and art books and romance novels and books on putting oneself back together, and any of Sebastian’s therapy kids are welcome to come over and stay in guest rooms if they need someplace to go and also to borrow anything from said library

\--and if sometimes the expensive editions go missing, well, sometimes kids need money…

\--they do, however, keep the _really_ rare or sentimental-value volumes upstairs in the master bedroom suite, which nobody dares to go into after that time Scott opened the door and found the sex swing

\--Sebastian also can be convinced to play the piano--some very influential people remember him and how good he is--for public and private concerts on occasion, always for charities and benefits

\--Sebastian even ends up on some Presidential Advisory Committees about youth and counseling and the arts, which means he goes to D.C. every so often, which causes Congressman Uncle Mike to beam and proclaim “HA! I KNEW IT!”

\--they of course continue to volunteer at their school, even after the renovations and all the new programs

 

\--so _eventually_ Chris and Seb get that big house and have those wonderful careers, but before all that, these things happen:

 

\--they get a slightly nicer and more spacious (room for ALL the books) apartment together, and Sebastian goes back to school while Chris starts making a bit of money from the art

\--Nikolaj moves in next door

\--and a couple of the other bodyguards get the apartment across the hall, you know, just because

\--physical therapy is awful but Sebastian's determined, and he can even finally manage to get legs above his head while on his back in bed, despite the worried expressions Chris is making, thank you, yes he'd say something if it hurt, now get back to what you were doing, please

\--Nikolaj, who _did_ go to college once upon a time, helps Sebastian with admissions procedures and applications and adapting to the college environment, and sometimes with assignments

\--Nikolaj totally majored in something relatively obscure, like English (which for him was a second language) Jacobean-era satirical drama, and he’s not a bad cook (this is in part how Seb learns) but he can be easily distracted by a new edition of Ben Jonson’s _The Alchemist_ and might consequently forget to stir a pot

\--somewhere around the fourth year of Sebastian's first PhD they adopt a tiny Pomeranian fluffball of a dog because Seb finds her abandoned and starving and shivering in the rain and looks at Chris with those big hopeful eyes, and Chris can’t say no

\--they name her Vlad (they weren’t sure about gender, and by the time they knew, she wouldn’t answer to anything else) and she’s five pounds of ferociously devoted loyalty

\--Marcus remains baffled by this (“If you wanted a dog I could have found you a proper dog! A Rottweiler! A Dobermann pinscher! A German Shepherd!”) but that’s partly just because Vlad chewed up one of his shoes

\--weeknights generally involve Seb studying, doing homework, finishing up and closing books and maybe helping Scott (who just shows up randomly most nights, really) practice soap-opera lines, while Nikolaj cooks (and sometimes burns spaghetti) and Chris draws: sketches of Vlad running around after a ball, of Scott declaiming monologues to a breadstick (and sometimes using Vlad as a prop: “Thanks to my wicked uncle, my mother left her entire fortune to THIS HORSE!” “That’s our dog.” “She’s a horse for this scene!”)

\--but Chris is always and forever mostly drawing Sebastian

\--especially when Sebastian looks up from a book, glances his way, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Now with [gorgeous art for chapters 11 and 12 by Lorien!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5020660)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Falling into motion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10167518) by [boopboop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boopboop/pseuds/boopboop)




End file.
